


Brace Yourself

by Ibbonray



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: 50th Hunger Games, Canon, Character Development, Deception, Emotional Overdrive, F/M, Insanity, POV First Person, Poison, Pre-Hunger Games Series, Present Tense, Quarter Quell, Relationship complications, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-06
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-07 17:10:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 116,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1122391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbonray/pseuds/Ibbonray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games, as experienced by Maysilee Donner and a certain Haymitch Abernathy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Maysilee Donner

**Author's Note:**

> This is for all the bookworms, Haysilee shippers, and risk-takers out there who just want to read a good story. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

~~~

Prologue: Maysilee Donner

I know my heart says the truth

Maybe it was me and you?

I got to return to the wind

This world is never our home

Somewhere I left friends alone

Can someone show me the way?

Do I remember a life?

-Do I Remember A Life, Michael Kiske

~~~

Back then, I was just one girl, in one world, with one point of view, living one life. Back then I thought I had a purpose in life. Back then I believed I could make a difference.

But now I realise that the purpose I have in life is to die. To die so others can live.

I see it now; my Haymitch, who sits beside me, holding my hand, is going to win these Games. His life is so much more important than mine has been. He is going to spark the rebellion; he is going to find the person who will create an inferno; he is going to assist the fire-bringer in every way possible; and he is going to die knowing he has made a difference. He isn't going to die wishing he could have done more, so much more.

That's all I ever was. A little girl who wished she could do more. A girl with tedious blue eyes and dull blonde hair, with a twin sister and a best friend that she envied every so often, with a canary that she took care of just to have to give it away, with a mother who died when she was young, with a father who owned a sweet shop and went through life in a wearisome manner. A girl who studied to get flawless grades, a girl who never had a boyfriend, a girl who snuck off to the meadow to have peace and quiet, a girl who was thought to marry a merchant boy one day and have children and live happily ever after. A girl who was, in reality, destined to die. A girl who was reaped for the games, a girl who loved Haymitch Abernathy, a girl who killed a thirteen-year-old boy and three others. A girl who lies on the ground now in punishment for those deaths, slowly bleeding out through a hole in her neck.

A girl who is not able to speak as she slips away, remembering her life. A girl whose lover is the last thing she sees. A girl whose last thoughts are the ones uttered softly from his lips. I love you.

I am that girl. I am Maysilee Donner.


	2. 1: District Twelve

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

~~~

Chapter One: District Twelve

The heart is a bloom

Shoots up from the stony ground

There's no room

No space to rent in this town

You're out of luck

And the reason that you had to care

The traffic is stuck

And you're not movin' anywhere

-Beautiful Day, U2

~~~

"No school for another week," Fauna gushes, practically skipping down the sidewalk, radiating enthusiasm. I nod in agreement. I don't particularly love school- I try my best, I get decent grades, and I'm okay with it. But Fauna relishes every chance she gets to spend more hours in the apothecary her parents own and manage. She would rather eagerly help wounded patients than sit for hours taking notes on lectures and studying out of textbooks.

"Can you believe graduation is tomorrow?" Myra, my twin sister, who is walking on my left side, asks. "We'll be starting Year Eleven within a week!"

Fauna laughs and replies, "It's crazy! Wish they'd give us a longer vacation, though."

"Yeah, but, you know..." Myra sighs sadly and doesn't proceed, but we all know what she's talking about. We don't dare speak of it now in attempt to try to forget of its existence, but it's still looming over our heads like a dark storm cloud. Yes; in two days, the reaping will occur.

But this isn't going to be your standard reaping. It's the 50th Annual Hunger Games Quarter Quell reaping, and this time it's double the tributes, which means double the fun- for the Capitol, at least. Tribute's chances at living have diminished from four percent to two. Let's just say this year should be... interesting. Agonizing.

It's obvious why we are let out only a week before classes start up again. Our first free day ends in a large graduation ceremony for District Twelve's learning community, and then the next day is the reaping. After that, five more free days until the Games officially begin... then we're shunted back in school. It's cruel, really, to be denied the privilege to watch the Games in your own home and be forced to attend school with only hourly updates to satisfy you; but I've endured it all my life and can endure it again.

If there is an again. Because what if I am chosen? I only have five slips of paper in the reaping bowl this year, but that doesn't make any difference. There's still a possibility. There's still a chance. And I don't trust my luck.

I resurface from the depths of my thoughts to realise that Fauna and Myra are conversing about one of my least favorite subjects: boyfriends. Since they currently each have one at the moment, they've taken to double dating quite often. I'm invited, but it just doesn't work out. Not that they purposely try to make me feel uncomfortable... it's just awkward without a partner myself. Which means I'm not accompanying them and I'll have nothing to do tonight.

I think that some of my dislike for any talk about romantic relationships is the fact that I'm jealous of them, to be completely honest. I mean, Myra's my twin sister, and Fauna's my best friend, but while every man turns heads to look at both of them when they walk by, it seems like I just blend into the shadows. They have light blonde hair that is noticeable and eyes that sparkle, whist my hair is the colour of dirty straw and my eyes are a grayish-blue (more often than not). They only turn fully blue when I'm angry, which is quite unfortunate.

No, I'm not interested in starting a relationship with any of the merchant boys. You see, they're all so dull. My father would forbid me to see any Seam folk, either. For now, I'm good with the way my dating life stands- which is nonexistent- but I just want to be noticed for a change.

"Do you want to come with us, Mays?" Invites Fauna. She's referring to the plans they have for the end of the day. I know she's just asking out of politeness, and she knows I dislike embarking on their double dates. It's okay, though. Myra and I have been best friends with Fauna since birth, practically- but it's not like we have to do everything together.

"Oh, no, it's okay. I have somewhere I have to be tonight." Myra gives me a strange look at this, knowing my schedule is open for the evening, but says nothing. She knows it's just an excuse.

"Ooh, where are you going? Finally found yourself a boy, Mays?" Fauna teases.

I elbow her in the side, saying, "No, and not for a while."

"We really need to hook you up with someone," Myra says, and I shake my head at her repeatedly, which has little effect. She's done this before, believing every person the age of sixteen and older should have come at least close to losing their virginity. The fact that her twin sister hasn't even bothered to ask someone out at all is unacceptable, she says. So, for the past three years, she's been trying to partner me with multiple young men. The butcher's son, the jeweler's son- hell, even the baker's son, who's loved Fauna since he met her! I can't even imagine whom she'll suggest next. "How about... George! George Undersee! He's a sweet boy."

I raise an eyebrow, snorting. "The mayor's son?" Then I burst into a fit of laughter, regaining my breath a moment later. "Myra, how many times do I have to tell you, he's got his eyes on you, not some mediocre sister of yours." I wouldn't be surprised if they marry five years from now.

"You're not mediocre! And no he does not. I'm already taken. I'm dating-" She snaps, but I cut her off, saying, "Faun, this is your stop."

I nicknamed my best friend Faun when we were about five. Our fathers had taken us and Myra to the meadow to play in the luscious grass, after gaining the permission of several Peacekeepers. A young deer- a fawn- stepped out of the woods, gracefully and majestically, and we stared at it in awe. Eventually it loped back the way it came, and I turned to Fauna, saying she was as beautiful as that fawn we saw, and began to call her "Faun," a mixture of "Fauna" and "fawn." The name stuck, and now both Myra and I call her that, as well as a couple of other close friends.

Around that same time, she started calling me "Mays." It's also a play on words. Our first year of schooling, we had a geography class that taught of the landscapes of multiple districts. We were studying District Eleven (their industry is agriculture) and, as one of the most interesting features of District Eleven is its food production, we eventually settled on the topic. One of the first words on the list was "maize." The instructor informed us that if you were starving to death (this was directed mostly to future Hunger Games participants), and if you had a large abundance of maize, you could live off of it. Not for long, but it would be very filling. You would survive. Later, Fauna turned to me and said, "I don't think I could survive without you, Mays. Get it? Mays? Maize?" Now everyone addresses me as that. Not Maysilee- Mays. I am Mays. The person they couldn't live without. The person that many people like but very rarely do they bother to look me in the eye. If I said this aloud, it would be laced with a bitter sarcasm.

Fauna looks up at the windows of her parent's apothecary and exclaims, "Already?" She gives each of us a quick hug. "Bye Mays, Myra. See you tonight!" After that, she proceeds to skip through the front door of the apothecary, her blonde hair creating a halo around her head, her arms swinging merrily at her sides. She hums one of the favourite tunes of the miners', an upbeat, repetitive melody that always irritates me. Yet, it doesn't today. Maybe I'm just not in the mood for the depressing songs I normally favour, such as the Hanging Tree.

Smiling, I turn away just after she disappears into the dark shop.

~~~

The journey to the candy shop our father owns is relatively quiet, especially for Myra. Usually she jabbers away at mindless things that are easy for me to tune out on, but at this moment the only sounds I hear are the crunch of gravel beneath our feet and the distant voices of other people who are outside on this lovely afternoon. It's peaceful, in an odd way. A type of peaceful I get only when I am by myself.

I am staring up at the stunningly blue sky, contemplating whether I begin a conversation, and don't even realise that Myra has stopped until I am several metres ahead of her. I back up quickly and realize there is a single tear gliding down her rosy cheek. "What's the matter?" I ask, concerned.

It takes a while for her to reply, and by the time she can she's full-out bawling. "I just keep thinking about," Myra chokes out, "if we're both picked for the, you know..."

Yes. I know. The reaping. But why is she thinking about this now? "The chances are so slim, My. You and I are going to be okay. There's only ten slips between the two of us- and there are thousands in those bowls."

I try to sound calm and convincing, and I think it works, because her now bloodshot eyes blink rapidly and she smiles hesitantly. I almost feel guilty because these words I have said were mostly for the purpose of convincing myself.

"But… but…" She swipes at her eyes.

"Stop. It won't happen. Trust me. I may be only older than you by seven minutes, but let me enlighten you... your big sister knows everything," I joke. She laughs at this and hugs me tightly. Then we resume our walking, and it is much more comfortable this time, for Myra is now telling me quietly about a young boy who walked up to her in the market yesterday.

"He was Seam," she says. "About ten years old. Curly black hair and those gray eyes the lot of them have inherited. And it was so weird, because I was looking at this teardrop-shaped crystal necklace and he simply appeared from nowhere and said, 'You should buy that.' And I asked, 'why?' He gazed at the pendant and replied, 'You're going to cry a lot soon'. Then he left." She stares at me in inquiry and doesn't seem to notice I'm not interested. "When I looked to where he went, his mother was scolding him loudly, saying, 'I told you not to do that anymore, Dreamth Abernathy! I don't care how many kids like you play this fortune-teller game, but you can't just go around spouting nonsense! It'll get you in trouble one day!' What do you think about that?"

I shrug slightly, not really caring. "I'm sure the boy was just kidding. You know Father says not to trust anyone from the Seam." Myra looks doubtful at my reasoning, but nods anyway. "Yeah, you're probably right," she agrees. "It was very odd, though."

About two hundred metres later, we enter the family's sweet shop, the bell on the glass door tinkling as we open it. The sugary sweet smell of chocolate, mint, and strawberries fills the air. Mason jars filled with candies of all kinds line the walls; liquorice whips fill a large china bowl set on an expansive counter; chocolates reside in one case whilst another holds a few cookies. Our cookies aren't very popular, considering that the baker is fabulous at making them and his son does impressive icing work. During the wintertime, though, many people enter the shop to buy our gingerbread, as Father has a certain recipe in which the ingredients cost very little, so our prices are superior to the bakery's.

Our father sits on a wooden stool behind the counter. He has no customers at the moment. "Hey, girls," he says, weariness creeping into his tone after a long day of work. "How was your day?"

"It was nice," I say, smiling faintly. He smiles back as Myra bounds up the stairs. This building serves as our home, as well as the sweet shop; the shop portion being on the main floor where it is easily accessible, while our living quarters are located right above. The bedroom my twin and I share is just a few metres away from the tops of our heads. In seconds' time, we hear Myra's feet pounding on the floor as she yells, "Daddy, where's my purple wraparound dress?"

"It's at the washerwoman's!" Father calls in the general direction of her voice. I hear a loud stream of cursing and irritated groans emit from Myra's lips. "Watch your mouth, young lady!" He adds on as an afterthought, prompting her to say nothing more, but on occasion I do hear a loud sigh of annoyance. I know what Myra wants- a dress for her date tonight- and, from past experiences, I also know that she will throw a tantrum the size of Panem if I don't help her choose another. Or else, she might just storm over to the washerwoman's herself and snatch the soaking dress from the lady's hands, deciding to wear it anyway despite its current state. And that would clearly be disastrous, so I excuse myself from Father and wish him luck sweet-selling.

Walking quickly up the staircase, I turn down the narrow hallway and enter our bedroom. The walls are painted a faint yellow colour and the window is thrown wide open, letting a nice breeze in. Myra has her head out the window, taking deep breaths of fresh air, and I tap her expectantly on the back. "How about we try that creme-coloured dress with the crimson border? I know you like that one."

We have many dresses. The majourity used to be our mother's, passed down to us when she died. Our mother was born in the Capitol, actually. Her 'mother' (in the Capitol it is absolutely unacceptable to become pregnant- instead, they hire other women to give birth to their children, which I find outrageously inhuman) and father were sent here to District Twelve by the barbarous and controlling President Flame, in punishment for something I have never been told. But the young couple didn't deteriorate here. No, they thrived, and so did my mother. Her parents showered her in gifts, mostly of clothing, and we own only a minuscule percentage.

I never did meet my grandparents, though. They died a few years before I was born, on the fifth night of the thirty-second annual Hunger Games. They had another daughter, my aunt- Maysilee Brave, was her title. I was named after her. She was the one drawn from the bowl that year; she was the unlucky girl to be reaped. The Maysilee I never knew had survived the bloodbath, found shelter near a water source, set snares to catch rabbits, and was pretty handy with a knife. The odds were in her favour, for the most part. But her fatal flaw finally got to her: staying in one place. The huge brute from Ten found her and had buried a knife in her chest after raping her viciously. Well, that's what Myra told me. I've never been able to bring myself to watch those Games. I've tried and failed... maybe it's the uncanny resemblance between us when I saw her on the television that turned me away, maybe it's the fact that we bear the same first name. In short, I have never wanted to experience the death of a girl that seems so familiar, but so far away; so far away that I will never meet her.

The story goes my grandparents saw her death on the television, late in the middle of the night, and walked silently to the kitchen in mourning. They took two sharpened butcher knives from the cabinet they were stored in, and, clasping their free hands together, buried the knives in each other's chests. The lady owning the carpentry shop found them the next morning, cold and stiff on the tiled floor, but with peaceful, smiling faces.

My mother was filled with grief over her sister's and parent's deaths, Father told me. He found my mother at the fence surrounding District Twelve that afternoon, looking out into the meadow with tears streaming down her face, and it was love at first sight. A year later, they married, and two years later, Myra and I were borne into the world, beautiful and innocent and not knowing of our grandparents and aunt that our mother had loved so much.

I love wearing the dresses. They tie me to my past, in a way. They remind me of the parent I barely knew, the aunt I never met, the grandparents that died so long ago. They remind me that I should hold my head up in pride of my predecessors on the days I feel like lowering it in shame. They remind me that there are people I don't know that contributed to who I am today, and I should be grateful. So I am grateful for these beautiful garments in such a variety of colours and patterns and textures and fittings.

"But… I want to wear-" I cut Myra off with a glare. She is not going to wear the purple dress now. I head to our beautiful cherrywood wardrobe, open the doors, and search around in the dark space for the creme-coloured dress. Eventually I find the dress hung on the pole furthest away from me, remove it, and hold it up for Myra to see. She stares at it for a second, then puts her hands on her hips. "Fine! Fine! I'll wear the damn thing." Smiling widely, I toss it to her and walk out the door, glancing behind me to smirk and speak in superiority.

"See you around, my dear sister."

~~~

Myra left with her boyfriend not too long ago, to meet up with Fauna and her lover, a very sweet and enthusiastic boy named Benjamin Cartwright. Fauna's parents gently forced her into the relationship, and although she likes him, it's in a platonic way. Everyone knows she's been in love with Hearth Everdeen for years, but since he's from the Seam, they aren't allowed to see each other much- only when Hearth, who secretly goes outside the fence, delivers much-needed herbs to the apothecary.

Fauna has many boys in love with her. Benjamin, Hearth… even Bannock Mellark. It's obvious why, to everyone but her.

I dismiss this thought and ponder what to do. Finally, I decide upon going on a walk.

I've gone on plenty of walks before, the majourity within the merchant part of the district, but tonight I'm feeling slightly rebellious. I'm on my way to the meadow, an area just outside of District Twelve that we're not supposed to go to unless given permission. People do anyway, but their trips to the meadow are well hidden from the Peacekeepers. Normally the only thing that drives hunters to go past the fence and into the woods is the need for food, or else they'd face starvation, but today the sole purpose for my trip to the meadow is to have a quiet place to think. First, though, I have to venture through the Seam, which I've only had the nerves to do once or twice.

I pass a few nice merchant houses, but once I turn to walk down a street I rarely set foot on, the buildings get shabbier and shabbier. It's almost as if they're all the same building slowly deteriorating before my perceptive eyes. It's sad, really. At least most people from the Seam are in the midst of suppertime, so I won't see them and pity them. It's best I not be seen for other reasons, as well; and while some would recite a lengthy, detailed monologue on the subject, it all narrows down to the fact that I'm upper class, they're lower class, and I'm not supposed to be here.

So I stick to the shadows (not that there are many, since there is still an hour and a half or so before the sun completely disappears), and tread lightly on the cobblestone path. After a few blocks of remorsefully reminiscing the simple luxuries I have compared to them, I finally reach the fence.

HIGH VOLTAGE! Numerous metal signs warn me about touching the barbed-wire fence, attached to it at four-foot intervals. KEEP BACK! This fence was built when District Twelve was founded: more than fifty years ago, but less than seventy-five. I'm sure the moment it was constructed, no one would dare attempt to get through it. But time has taken its toll. The fence is now powered about once a week for three or four hours. I have calculated this for my pure benefit, observing that this span of time usually occurs on Sundays. It is Friday, and the fence is not buzzing with electricity, as expected.

I walk the length of the fence quickly, searching for an opening in the fence that fits my preference. Located near the bottom, wide enough to squeeze through whilst not too uncomfortable, and hidden well by a wilting bush- those are the characteristics of the perfect aperture I find. I get on my hands and knees and crawl through the gap easily. Now I'm in the meadow.

To make sure nobody sees me, I sprint (which I am remarkably good at) to the edge of the forest that surrounds the small expanse of grass. I hide behind a tree with a large trunk and press my back against the rough bark, sliding down to sitting position and closing my eyes in contentment. I stay like this for a long amount of time (I don't bother to keep track), my shoulders relaxed and my breathing deep. The meadow and the woods are peaceful, with crickets just beginning to chirp and the wind whipping through my hair...

"Well, someone's being a bit naughty tonight," whispers a male voice, just inches away from my ear. It causes me to jump in surprise and, shortly after this, scream for all it's worth.

"Shut up! You don't want them to hear you." Someone's large, warm, calloused hand covers my mouth, forcing me to breathe out of my nose. It's very hard to do this, because I am hyperventilating. I don't recognize this voice. I don't know who this man is, or what his intentions are. He may be planning on raping me, or worse, murdering me and... stop it, I scold myself. Stop frightening yourself over what's probably nothing.

I cannot speak, so I wait in fear until he does. "What are you doing here, Maysilee Donner?" Says the man. Or is it a boy? Judging on the voice, the youngest this person could be is around fifteen. But I'm scared to look to see who it is, and he's out of my line of sight anyway- hidden by the tree I have my back to.

How does he know my name, anyway? I hesitate for a moment, and then, consumed by the knowledge of what I don't know, I bite his hand. He (thankfully) lets me go, the hand retreating, but doesn't make a sound of pain as I would expect. Quickly, I take a large breath of air and jump to my feet, stumbling away from the tree and further into the woods. "Who... who are you?"

He then steps out from behind the tree, saying, "I'm sorry, did I scare you, sweetheart?" A smirk appears on his perfect lips. I take him in, one feature at a time: tousled, curly hair, olive skin, and piercing, laughing grey eyes. He's about my age. Probably the year ahead of me, or maybe in my year. I don't pay much attention to boys, especially those from the Seam, anyway. But I know I've seen him before- I know it.

I ignore his comment. If I ask him his name will I be able to decipher who he is? But he doesn't seem the type to tell me, so I spout a demand instead. "Name, please."

The smirk doesn't leave his face. "And what will you do if I don't tell you it?" He asks pleasantly.

"I'll... I'll..." I stutter, unable to think of anything, and my face flushes. What would I do? I don't know him. I couldn't use anything against this boy. And he knows this too.

"That's what I thought." He steps closer to me, and for a moment, I extract a memory from the depths of my brain. It may as well be a photograph. It seems to be recent; myself looking out the window of our sweet shop at two figures, a girl and a boy about my age standing in the sprinkling rain, holding hands. I'm sure this is the young man I saw then, but the recollection does not help with the discovery of his name.

There is a pause in which I collect myself. "What do you want? Sneaking up on me like that was not funny."

"Oh, but it was, Maysilee."

When I was little, I threw tantrums often. In response to my pointless wailing, my father would often pull me into his lap and produce a dark chocolate truffle out of nowhere, my favourite type of candy. "Here's a bit of sugar for my beautiful little girl," he would say. "Now, if I give it to you, I want you to tell me you'll control your fiery temper!" I would normally agree, grabbing the truffle from his hand, making sure to keep my futile anger in check. But this boy has no chocolate to offer me, and my anger is slowly rising.

It is this comment that gets me. Not only is he correcting me, but he is using my name- and I don't know his. What a way to rub it in my face! I give a cry of irritation, stomp my foot, and slap him. To my displeasure, it has no effect on his cocky grin.

"Feisty," he comments. "Tell me, why would a merchant girl such as yourself sneak off to the meadow?"

I huff. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

For some reason, he tilts his head back and laughs at this. A long, genuine laugh. And then he looks at me, eyes shining, and says, "I would. But maybe some other time you'll tell me. I'll see you around, Maysilee Donner." He turns around and sprints off, faster than anyone I know- faster than I am, even. It's almost as if he's vanished into thin air. I look at the space where he last was and stare in amazement and exasperation.

Finally, I begin my way back to where I came from. I'm eager to get out of the forest and back home soon, for it's starting to grow dark. I'm not afraid of the forest- actually, I've ventured in a few times to gather certain varieties of plants my father likes to use to dye and flavour candies (mint, for instance). However, I never go very far into its depths, because that's where the wild dogs and mountain lions live. I don't know the specifics on what creatures like to come out at night, though, so I'm much more safe if I get out of here as soon as possible.

Breaking into a sprint, I cross the meadow and approach the fence, listening for a moment to see if any electricity is coursing through the wire. It isn't. Quietly, I slip through the same gap I entered in, crossing the border of District Twelve yet again.

As I make my way back home, I think about the boy. He was absolutely frustrating, and seemed to love taunting me, but despite those qualities you can't deny he was very gifted in the looks department. My mind conjures up that vague picture again. It's from about a year ago, I think. I examine the details of the memory- the dreary gray sky; him and his girl standing there, holding hands, both with black hair and alluring gray irises; the girl looking at him with a crooked smile and he staring off into the distance with a peaceful yet guarded expression on his face. I'm sure he's still with that girl today, as she is immensely attractive. But it still doesn't stop me from admiring the picture I have of him stored in my mind. It still doesn't stop me from going to bed early and dreaming of the way his lips fell into that half-smile so easily. It still doesn't stop me from feeling something I've never felt before.

Desire.

~~~

It's been a day since I last saw that boy from the meadow, and tonight, at graduation, I will see him again. I am convinced this is a very bad thing, because for some reason his face keeps popping up in my head, out of nowhere, and it impacts me more than it should. Such as right before I chose the dress I'm wearing: a colour of gray that Myra says looks very flattering on me. It matches the colour of his eyes, which is obviously the reasoning behind selecting it. It is comfortable, as well, made out of the softest of cottons, and I believe this is one of my new favourite dresses in Myra's and my wardrobe.

I stare at myself in the mirror, critiquing my looks. I've never been vain, but I cannot help but judge my appearance at times. My makeup is good enough; my hair is brushed. What more should the schoolteachers expect? It is not as if we're visiting the Capitol... although four of us will tomorrow, and one of them may or may not be me.

"Myra!" I call into our shared bathroom, where she has locked herself in for the past thirty minutes. "We need to begin walking to the school. Hurry up."

"Just a minute!"

I roll my eyes. Just a minute. She probably means I'll be sitting here for hours. "I'll leave without you," I warn, slipping into a pair of heeled black boots that must be Myra's, but since I grabbed them first, they're mine for the night. It's a little game Myra and I play. We are the same shoe size and same height, so we share all of our clothes. If we, for instance, both wanted to wear the same denim shorts, it would be a frenzied dash to see who touched them first. Being more talented at running, I am very good at this game.

Finally, Myra flings the door open and poses in the door frame. I have to admit, she looks gorgeous- although the dress is beginning to become a bit short, fraying around the hemline. "Come on, I'm ready," she announces, as if having been "ready" for hours. She trots down the stairs and exits out the main entrance instead of a side entrance Father frequently asks us to use. I sigh and follow her, like a lost puppy waiting for my twin sister to give me a treat.

~~~

The graduation goes as expected. One by one, each year is called up and presented with certificates verifying our participation in school. The eighteen-year-olds are the favourites of the night, though; they are requested to mount the stage one by one to give speeches of gratitude towards the schoolteachers, whom have educated them in so many significant topics. I wonder if I will make it past each reaping so I can recite my own speech, although I have no idea what I would write.

At the end of it all, we celebrate. Torches are lit and bread, donated from the bakery, is handed out. One of the hunters even brought along a bowl of strawberries and everyone has been offered one of the delectable fruits. I am having a wondrous time, laughing with Fauna about the ridiculous dress Benjamin Cartwright's mother and year eight's literature teacher, Miss Elfia, is wearing. But too soon, Faun is running off to go find Hearth Everdeen, and I am left alone.

However, I am not left alone for long. "Hello, Maysilee Donner," says a familiar voice from behind me that makes my heart stop in dread, frustration, desire, and hope.

"How long are you going to keep your name a secret from me?" I say, not bothering to turn around.

All of a sudden, he's very close; a hand on each of my shoulders, his chest pressing into my back, and his lips touching my ear. At all the points that his body comes in contact with mine, there is a prickling sensation that reminds me of static electricity. I contain a gasp of what I think is hatred, or maybe I'm just a little uncomfortable with the close proximity. You like it, something says in the back of my mind, but I push that away.

"A very long time," he breathes. "As long as you intrigue me, that is."

I remove his hands from my shoulders and turn to face him, which definitely wasn't a good idea. My eyes widen at the sight of him. It is dark, but the flickering torches that surround us illuminate his body, much like they do to the rest of the people in the square. But while the others simply appear out of the darkness, he looks inhumanly aglow; almost angelic. It's all I can do not to look away.

I take a moment to regain my bearings and say, "I... intrigue you?"

"The way I intrigue you, apparently." He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his lips twitching.

I'm at a loss for words. "I... I..." I swallow, and contort my face into what I hope is a stony expression. "I met you yesterday, and you are definitely the most frustrating person I've ever met, so no, you do not intrigue me."

His half-smile wavers. For once he seems completely serious as he talks. "Things aren't what they seem, sweetheart. You may find that it is confusing to figure out who I really am." He turns away.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I ask.

"It means some people in this world are given the talent to act."

~~~

That night, I tell Myra about the boy. "What's it supposed to mean?" I wonder aloud, after ranting about the events of the past couple of days. "That some people in this world are given the talent to act?" Myra simply looks like she's suppressing laughter. "Oh, thanks!" I groan sarcastically, irritated beyond belief. "Don't laugh. I can't help it that the boy is so secretive and confusing!"

"Of course you can't." She tries to sound sympathetic, but it doesn't work and a teasing smile keeps tugging on the corner of her lips. "First off, Maysilee, he's in our year, even though he isn't in any of our classes. Do you know Lane?" I shake my head, but she presses on. "Lane Diblre? She's from the Seam. They're friends, I think. Maybe it's more than that, but I don't think so. I've never seen them kiss each other before." Is this possibly the girl from my memory? The one of the two adolescents holding hands in the gentle April shower? I do not know.

Myra says something, but I don't listen. It's not until she's standing with her hands on her hips, annoyed with the distant look in my eyes, that I shake myself back into reality. "What?" I ask, clueless.

"I said- you're falling for him." She rolls her eyes. "It's obvious. And based on all of the seductive talk, he likes you back. Mays, this is wonderful! You're finally going to get a boyfriend, and… and… oh." I look at her in shock, trying to take all the information in, and when her face turns white I start to panic.

"What? What's wrong?" The words tumble out of my mouth.

"He's from the Seam," she whispers.

"Your point?"

"Father… is against it," she supplies, and I finally understand.

When we were little, about four and a half, a plague swept around the district, taking the lives of hundreds. My mother was the type of woman who would care for anyone who was in need, and one day, a little boy from the Seam who had the plague wandered into our shop. Knowing he was going to die soon, she gave him a bag of candy to let his last days be somewhat bearable. About forty-eight hours later, she passed away, from the exact same disease.

They say that plague was contagious. The end of my mother's life was a very good supporting detail to that statement.

Anyway, my father never looked at those from the Seam the same way again. Sure, on his good days, he will offer little Seam girls and boys with their faces pressed up against the windows a square of chocolate in return for odd jobs, such as sweeping the path outside, or maybe washing windows. But he would never forgive me if I actually got in a relationship with a Seam boy.

"Oh," I say. There's no other way to reply to that.

"You and Fauna are very alike," Myra notes, after a pause in conversation.

"How so?"

"All three of us are best friends, but you two have always been closer. You're both merchant girls, each having parents who are against them dating boys from the Seam, but are secretly in love with Seam boys anyway. Maysilee, you're going to have to find another boy. I know it's going to be hard but, seriously, think about George Undersee. Or maybe even Bannock Mellark!"

"Don't be crazy. First, I don't love that Seam boy. That's preposterous- I only just spoke to him yesterday. Secondly, both of those boys love others." I refrain from mentioning George Undersee loves Myra and Bannock Mellark loves Fauna. "Perhaps I'll just live out my life unmarried," I sigh, massaging my temples. Myra looks shocked at this, about to protest my suggestion of life-long solitude, but I speak before she can get out a word. "My, I'm going to bed. This is all too much. And we have a big day tomorrow."

"Okay, Mays. I love you." She gives me a sombre smile, which I return.

"Love you too. Good night."

~~~

The next morning, I awaken at eight, shaking from a nightmare I had. It was the reaping. The escort drew out of the ladies' bowl first and she announced the name "Myra Donner" in that high-pitched trill of hers. I volunteered, of course, since I've always been stronger than my twin sister. But the next slip was Myra again, and she came wailing up to the stage. After that, I just upturned the bowl to see if it was pure luck. And every one of those slips said "Myra Donner." All of them. Every. Single. One.

Then, it switched to the Games. We were up against the Seam boy from the meadow. I had to watch as he tortured Myra, cutting off her fingers one by one, then her toes, then her long blonde hair and her ears and her lips and… it was all too much. No matter how many times I tried to run to her, screaming, an invisible force held me back. No matter how many times I tried to close my eyes, they stayed open, refusing to shut. And once her cannon boomed, he turned to me, eyes wild, half-smile set in place. "Now it's time for me to kill you, sweetheart," he said. But before his words were fulfilled, I was pulled out of the abyss of the dream.

When I get out of bed, the first thing I do is approach my pet bird, which Fauna bought for me for my birthday a few years back. I named the bird Flora, which relates to my best friend's name. Fauna is the scientific term for animals, and flora is plant life. Fauna probably would have fit better for my little bird, but you see, that name was already taken. I've always loved the sweet, yellow-coloured canary, who is, at the moment, sleeping.

I reach down to open a door to the cabinet Flora's cage sits on, extracting a package of bird seed and a small water bottle, as well as an apple. I refill her dishes, slice the apple into small pieces for an extra treat, put the supplies away, and stroke her feathers for a bit while she sleeps.

Female canaries don't sing as much as males, though they do sing occasionally. Every time Flora bursts into song, though, Myra pesters me to shut her up (because I'm the only one who can). My twin sister has always hated the bird. If I am reaped, it will probably be Fauna who will take care of Flora for me.

After this, I head to our kitchen to where Father has set a loaf of bread for us to eat for breakfast, freshly made at the Mellark's bakery. How kind of him! He's probably downstairs in the sweet shop, selling goods to last-minute customers. I extract a bread knife from its resting place in a drawer and merrily saw away at the loaf until I freeze and think of this as a tribute's head. This makes me lose my appetite completely, and seconds later I'm stuffing the bread back into the package it came in and pushing it to the far side of the counter.

I still can't shake the picture from my mind: a serrated knife, someone's head, the blade tearing into the person's fleshy neck. I shudder. It's doubtful I will be reaped, but if I am, I don't think I could kill in the Games. I'm not of violent nature. Maybe I'm a little headstrong, but certainly not ruthless.

I look around the kitchen and find a bag of apples, the ones we have that aren't for Flora, and bite into one, hoping it doesn't cause me to have any more future Hunger Games visions. It doesn't, so I take three for myself. I do love apples.

Then I locate our wash tub from the corner of our main bathroom and drag it to the kitchen, favouring a hot bath. To achieve this, I travel to our backyard, where a small well is kept. I fill a bucket with water, bring it back up the stairs, pour the liquid into a pot, and heat it on the stovetop of our oven. The reason we have an oven with a stovetop is simple: there are a few types of sweets you have to bake, and the stovetop was just part of the appliance that the Capitol sent us. Now we have a quick and efficient way to heat water for baths- which is very nice to have on reaping day.

It takes me about thirty minutes to fill the tub, repeating the same process six more times, and by then Myra is awake and making herself breakfast. Still, I'm first to bathe since I filled the tub, which means the luxury of clean, perfect temperature water. I scrub my hair with rosemary-scented shampoo used especially for reapings, and my body with the regular lye soap you can purchase at a stall in the market.

After I am clean, I wrap a towel around myself and inform Myra that it's her turn to bathe. I walk to our room and enter our small wardrobe, selecting a dress I've been saving for the reaping since I bought it a few months ago: a garment made of shimmery white material that is soft and silky. Thin straps of this fabric are intricately wrapped around my upper body in so many overlapping layers it's almost mesmerizing, and slowly turn into one long sheet of cloth that ends at my knees in the front and ankles in the back. Since it's all the colour of ivory, you cannot see all of the interwoven strips of fabric from a distance, but up close it looks fantastic.

I brush my hair vigorously without relent until it's dry, proceeding to braid my hair and twist it up into a bun at the base of my neck. Following this is the application of minimal makeup: a thin amount of foundation, limited mascara, and lip gloss.

Thirty minutes of time to spare. I fidget around, not even giving Myra any notice as she applies her cosmetics. Then I'm finally struck with an idea. Poetry. Why not write poetry? I always find comfort in this art, whether I am angry, melancholy, edgy, or stultified. I take out a note pad and stick of charcoal (I have heard there is a substance called graphite that District Thirteen used to produce, but there's no one to mine it anymore, so we use this instead) and write.

~~~

The Backstabber:

I think I love you

But I don't know your name

Don't know if your words ring true

Or if my family will be brought to shame

I think I hate you

The entire world knows your name

You kill off our children and kill our lives too

All for the sustain of your fame

I think I am confused

Too many thoughts swirling 'round my mind

Soon I may find out I'm used

And they'll stab me from behind.

~~~

"Ladies! Gentlemen! Welcome to District Twelve's Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games reaping! Isn't this just fabulous?"

I'm sure after this little speech Augusta gave, she anticipated for there to be a thunderous round of applause, loud hooting, and even vigorous shouting of her name. She should know what to expect, though- utter silence. Augusta Glamour has been District Twelve's official escort for about thirty years now, but still seems to think of us as District One and Two's equivalent.

"Her hat looks ridiculous," Fauna giggles quietly to me. I agree. It seems that this year, Augusta is trying to keep up the district spirit- for perched atop her violet mane of hair is a mass of black paper, coloured and styled to look like a lump of coal. I am starting to think Augusta is a bit mad after spending so much time escorting tributes to their immediate deaths. This hat she is wearing is evidence of her insanity.

As well as the absurdly crude hat and violet hair, Augusta has many distinctive features. Each year, she finds some way to dye her teeth different colours, so when she flashes us a smile I am met with an obnoxious bright orange. Her lips, puffed up to about five times what would be their normal size, are covered in glimmering rhinestones, as is her dress, smothered in the tiny faux gems. Augusta is despicable and it frightens me to think that there are some Capitol men and women who are even more exaggerated than she.

Meanwhile, as I look over her appearance, Augusta is droning on and on about this and that. I know explaining the Second Quarter Quell rule change takes a while, but most of us here have heard it a hundred times and counting. Each day at school, whispers of the Second Quarter Quell echoed off the stone walls, and fearful adolescents would gossip of whom might be chosen. I've had enough of it. Why can't we just get on with the reaping?

Finally, after an eternity, Augusta finishes. Now, it is time for the reaping. The reaping of four tributes this year- not two. And I may be one of them. I clutch Fauna and Myra's hands forcefully, but they don't seem to mind, since they are doing the same. The circulation is beginning to become lost in my fingers.

"Now," Augusta babbles. "Ladies are first, as always! Remember, I am going to pick one name from the girl's bowl, and then alternate until all four tributes are chosen. May the odds be ever in your favour!" She giggles like a young schoolgirl at this catchphrase- one that the Capitol thought up, naturally. It is made fun of throughout our district, simply because of the obnoxiously high accent that Capitolites say it in.

Augusta's surgically altered hand flutters over the slips of paper, and then dives in, snatching one. She lifts the slip into the air triumphantly.

It takes her a minute to open it. Not me, I pray. Not me, or Fauna, or Myra . Please, please, please. I cross my fingers behind my back and whomever is watching over me grants my wish, because instead, it's an eighteen-year-old named Rosalina Dark from the Seam. Her parents are both coal miners, and from the local gossip, which I don't care for much, I have learnt that she prostitutes herself to Peacekeepers so she can pool up enough money to have the Capitol doctor in town fix up her father's lungs. I've seen the man before- he always walks around with a cloth so that when he coughs, blood doesn't spray everywhere. I feel so bad for him now. He'll die if he doesn't get enough money, and when Rosalina is in the arena, she might die as well. She'll probably die. The odds are slim this year.

The moment Augusta calls her name she bursts into tears, and her friends swarm her. Eventually, though, the Peacekeepers herd her up onto the stage and she attempts to look tougher than she is. It doesn't work. I doubt she's ever touched a weapon in her life, and I'm sure she's regretting it now.

Next, even more dreadful for Rosalina, is her little brother, Tyler Dark. He's thirteen but looks much younger than that. Rosalina, who was trying to look fierce, emits a small, choked sound, and then collapses onto the floor, wailing, her waist-length hair splayed around her. Tyler walks on stage and sits next to Rosalina, whispering quietly into her ear, probably trying to comfort her. I see he has no tears. He's strong. Tyler has accepted his fate.

I barely notice Augusta is reaching into the girl's bowl yet again, but once I do, I panic. I need to pray that it's no one I love. Please don't be Fauna or Myra or-

"Maysilee Donner!"

Too late.

~~~

Standing on stage, looking at a sea of faces, I feel as if I'm on the top of the world, able to control all of the people around me. I know this is not possible, but it's entertaining to imagine. I scan the crowd and see my sister and my best friend. They are in hysterics, sobbing loudly. They clung to me when my name was called, and wouldn't let go. I had to pry their hands off of me, merciless, before walking to the stage with my head held high.

I don't dare cry. In fact, I doubt I could cry if I wanted to, for I feel as if I'm made of stone right now. I am simply going through so much shock that the words I am a tribute can barely process in my mind.

"Haymitch Abernathy!"

The name means nothing to me, and for moments, I stare blankly at the crowd. But then he steps out, and he looks more stunning than ever, and he walks up to the stage, expressionless but with a dangerous glint in his eyes, and he stands next to me. He is the Seam boy I met in the meadow. He is Haymitch Abernathy.

~~~

One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four. We are marching from the stage in a steady pattern, following Augusta silently, our feet falling to the ground in sync. Even Haymitch goes along with the one-two-three-four motions. I look at him, walking at my left, a permanent scowl marring his handsome features. I would prefer the cocky smile to this side of him; this dangerous boy I haven't gotten the chance to meet yet. Even if I recognize the curly hair and the olive skin and...

I frown. I am thinking of Haymitch again.

I'm finally understanding what has just happened. Yes, Haymitch was recently reaped. And he stood next to me on stage. And when my shoulder brushed his arm, accidentally, I swear he flinched. And when we shook hands, his hands were very cold. Too cold.

And I was reaped. And there's no hope for us now. I don't even know if an us would be possible, anyway. I don't even know if his intrigue with me even has anything to do with love. It is doubtful. I don't know if he has a girl. I don't know if that girl Myra mentioned, Lane Diblre, is his girl or not. I don't even know if I like him in that way, no matter what Myra says. I don't know if the prickly feeling I have when I touch him is anger or pleasure. I don't know anything. I just don't know anymore.

Now we're walking to the Justice Building in a steady march that I like at the moment because there's no change. Just the one-two-three-four march. I could do this forever and no harm would come to me because I could follow the one-two-three-four march without being interrupted, without being thrown off course. There would be no Fauna, no Myra, no Father, no Rosalina, no Tyler, no Augusta, and no Haymitch… definitely no Haymitch. It would simply be one-two-three-four-one-two-three-four-ONE…TWO…THREE…FOUR...

Suddenly, everything goes black.

~~~

"Wake up." I stir, and my cheek stings slightly. "Wake up, sweetheart." I stir again, but I don't want to open my eyes. I'm tired. Why can't I just fall back asleep? "Wake up!" The voice sounds annoyed. It is the voice of that boy from the meadow. What was his name again? Oh, yes. It's Haymitch. Haymitch Abernathy.

Slowly, I crack an eyelid open, and see his face looming above mine. His curly hair is falling in his eyes and I'm tempted to reach up and brush the locks away, but I restrain myself. My eyes open wider and then I'm sitting up, coming face to face with him."What happened?" I ask.

"You blacked out," he says candidly, teasingly, sarcastically.

I roll my eyes. "Obviously. So why didn't Augusta take me to the medic?" Tributes have fainted before, on stage rather than on their way to the Justice Building, but they were still in an unconscious state no less. They normally are carried away to District Twelve's official doctor, the one from the Capitol that no one can afford. Now that we're in the Capitol's hands, Peacekeepers would never allow tributes to go to the apothecary instead. So I'm surprised when Haymitch says the Peacekeepers forbade my journey to the medic, saying I'd wake up soon enough.

I nod, anyway. "I see." My eyes skirt the small room we're in. Two plush couches reside in the space; one that we are sitting on. Their backs are to the walls, and a small desk sits between them with nothing on it (of course- wouldn't want anyone throwing innocent, pricey lamps at the walls in anger, would they?). There's a window in the corner, and looking out it, I see we're several stories high. I wonder if anyone has tried to jump out of the window before, in an act of suicide, like that one kid did off of the Training Centre roof about forty years ago. "We're in the Justice Building," I state plainly.

"Well, aren't you smart?" Haymitch smirks, leaning back into the velvet cushions of the couch. I sit up fully and swing my legs off the couch, crossing my ankles.

"We're in the same visitation room because...?"

"There are only two. The brother and sister wanted to be together, so I guess you're stuck with me."

"So, we should probably do something interesting to pass the time," I muse, in my best attempt at flirtation. Not that I have any practice.

"What do you suggest we do, sweetheart?" He grins mischievously back, eyes alight.

"Oh, I don't know. Suppose we debate on whether or not the seamstress should buy new awning covers?" I ask sarcastically. Haymitch laughs, but before he can reply, the door bursts open and two people are shoved carelessly into the room. One is a woman with curly jet-black hair and silent tears streaming down her face and the other is a little boy, about ten, his expression hard, firm, and stony. This is Haymitch's family, of course.

I make sure to give them space. I feel like an intruder as the woman and the child sit next to Haymitch and clasp his hands tightly, but I can't help but hear the few words that are uttered. There is not much said, just meaningless, heartbroken gibberish, until the younger boy simply declares, "You will come back."

"You don't know that, Dreamth," Haymitch says. Dreamth. I know that name. How do I know that name? Something Myra told me… just a couple days ago. I should have listened to her more closely.

But despite Haymitch's protest, Dreamth Abernathy seems very sure of himself. "You will come back," he says, his voice powerful. After this, he leaves, telling his mother that he'll be right outside the doors. Haymitch's mother stays, and unexpectedly, she stands up and walks over to me, holding her arms out in a hug. I find this odd, but accept anyway. It's clear her intentions are different, though, a few moments later.

"Keep my son safe for me, will you?" She whispers in my ear. "He isn't as strong as his façade suggests." I stare at Haymitch over his mother's shoulder, and I see he is a little shocked by this exchange between two people he knows are unfamiliar with each other. I pull away, nodding to her almost unintelligibly to tell her I accept what she has said. She smiles gratefully, but the effect is ruined what with her red, bloodshot eyes.

"Goodbye, Haymitch. Dreamth and I will see you soon," his mother says intensely, her gaze as hard as coal, and her tears seemingly vanish momentarily. Then, she turns and marches out the door, without a glance back.

~~~

She is replaced with my father and sister, who are an entirely different story. Father is calm, but crying. Myra is absolutely hysterical. "You can't go!" She cries. "You can't!" I try to soothe her as much as I can, but my hugs are no use, sending her into more frantic wailing, interrupted by the occasional hiccup.

My father gives me a golden pin. He says it is a family heirloom from my mother's side of the family. I don't remember much about my mother, just her soft voice and the honey-like colour of her hair- some of the only recollections I have about the traumatic age of four. I am thankful for this meager connection to her memory, though.

I examine the pin. In the middle of is a mockingjay: a type of bird that is almost like a slap in the face to the Capitol. When the Hunger Games began, they created a muttation called a jabberjay, which would alert them of any rebellious speaking behind the Capitol's back. The districts discovered this and fed the Capitol lies, resulting in the jabberjays' release into the wild, where they were expected to die off. Instead, they mated with female mockingbirds, and the mockingjay was borne.

I love the pin. It feels like, by wearing it, I will rebel against the Capitol in my own, small way. "Thank you," I say, and I mean it. This is the best gift I have ever been given. In the past I have received dresses from my mother, candy from my father, cosmetics from Myra, and Flora, my canary, from Fauna. But this tops all, and it may very well be the last gift I will ever receive.

"Win for me, Mays," Myra says to me just before the three minutes are up, hands on my shoulders and looking straight into my eyes. Hers are puffy and bloodshot. Mine are not. I do not know why I haven't cried yet. I don't feel like crying, and I don't feel like responding to this request from my twin, but I have to anyway.

"I'm not sure I can, My," I reply miserably, ruefully.

"No, Mays, listen. No matter what you do, you have to win for me!" She shakes me hard, like I am a rag doll that is unable to be broken.

The Peacekeepers are pulling my father out of the room, and are reaching for Myra. But her claw-like fingernails have dug themselves into my wrists. How the Peacekeepers will pry her off me, I don't know. "I love you, Daddy," I tell Father. I haven't called him that in years. I can tell it touches him, because a single tear streaks down his cheek. Then he disappears down the hallway.

"Listen, Myra," I say urgently. "If I don't win, I don't win. You're going to have to accept that. I love you, I do, but if I die, you have to be able pull yourself together."

At these words she lets go of my wrists, shaking her head violently, and screams at my face. "NO! YOU'RE GOING TO WIN IF I TELL YOU TO!"

"Myra!" I exclaim. How is she even capable of this fit of rage, when I am the one who is going into a fight to the death? She kicks and screams at the Peacekeepers that are pulling her back. But there's one of her, and five of them. They restrain her quickly enough. "WHY DO YOU HAVE TO GIVE UP, MAYSILEE?" Her voice cracks. "I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE-"

A Peacekeeper slams the door. There is silence.

I turn to Haymitch. The look on his face pities me. I despise it. "Don't you dare," I say harshly. "Don't you dare say you're sorry that my sister… my sister… did that." Next thing I know he has my wrapped in an embrace, and I'm telling him, "There's forty-eight of us, and only one's coming back. I'm not coming back. I'm not. Why can't she believe me?"

"People only believe what they want to believe, sweetheart." His voice is bitter, in a melancholy way. "You can't change it."

~~~

Fauna is the next visitor. I fling myself into her arms and I hug her as hard as I can. "What happened with Myra?" She asks tentatively.

"She couldn't accept the fact that I might not come back," I say. "Just know that even if I don't, I love you and you'll always be my best friend." She nods and cries, telling me she loves me too. We spend a minute just standing there, arms wrapped around each other, and I take in the familiar scent of her hair. It is lavender. It's always lavender. She loves the smell, the colour, the way is calms the nerves and treats insomnia… lavender, lavender, lavender.

"If I die," I tell her in one last request, "I want you to have Flora." This makes more tears spring to her eyes, pouring down her cheeks in a wave of emotion.

"No, no, I can't do that. She's yours."

"Listen to me. Myra hates my canary, and won't take care of her, during these next weeks that follow and after my death, if that occurs. You love things that sing. Flora, mockingjays, Hearth…" She blushes, and I smile slightly. "Promise you'll take her home with you, Fauna. Promise."

"Okay," she sighs. "I guess I can take care of her for your Games, and if you don't come back... even though you will... but if you don't, I'll take care of her as long as I can. Flora and Fauna- we were made for each other, right?"

"Right." That's the last thing I say to her. Then she's gone too.

~~~

The last visitor is one I've seen only once, through the window of our sweet shop. A girl with glossy dark hair that is cut short and fierce gray eyes. She and Haymitch could be cousins, as they have the same arch in their eyebrows and the same full lips- but they're not cousins, because the first thing they do is smash those pretty lips together in a kiss.

I almost fall off the couch.

I should have expected this, I think sadly, as I stare at them in what probably comes off as vulgar fascination, but inside is hot, utter fury (for reasons I just cannot fathom). I silently denied Lane would visit, and that she and Haymitch were an item. I was sorely misguided. "Who is that?" I overhear her say in disgust. "Why is she staring? Hasn't she ever seen two people make out before?"

Well, of course I have. I have a sixteen-year-old twin who has had, in total, fourteen boyfriends. What do you expect? But it makes me angry, anyway. I dig my fingernails into my palms, like Myra did to my wrists. It stings, but it's a good way to relieve the pain I feel from… anything. Everything. Something.

I wish he had told me that Lane was his girl- not that there was any reason for him to, but it's a bittersweet thought anyway. Here I am, attracted (possibly) to this one boy whom I didn't know the name of just forty-five minutes ago, and he's already taken. I knew it already, though- I can't deny myself that. There has always been that little picture in the back of my head. Always Lane and Haymitch, holding hands in the middle of the cobblestone street. I chose to ignore that; I let myself think that was all in the past. And I shall suffer the consequences of my simple-minded assumption that he liked me at least slightly in return. Not that I like him that way. Of course not.

Once Lane leaves the room, I know I can't take any rage out on Haymitch. I have brought this all upon myself- and that's whom I will inflict my anger upon. So as the blood beads on the crescent-shaped cuts on my hands and I focus my accusing eyes on his, I say nothing and do nothing. His features are riddled with guilt, but it is probably false. He begins to speak, once, but I cut him off with a sharp hiss.

My self-inflicted broken heart is thankful that we wait in silence.

~~~

I'm sitting in a vehicle. Augusta is chattering away about the car's fantastic qualities: its crimson exterior, sumptuous seats, and, oh, isn't this retractable television screen located where everyone can see it just fabulous? I disagree. There's nothing special about the car. It's just another thing, taking us to the next step in life.

Rosalina is still crying in the backseat. She has her tear-stained face pressed against Tyler's shoulder. It can't be comfortable, because Tyler looks ready to shove off her head at any moment.

The driver is an Avox. He cannot speak.

Haymitch and I have to sit side by side. It's agonizing. Every time I look at him, Lane's face flashes across my mind. Over and over again I repeat to myself in a mantra: I knew it and I denied it! I knew it and I denied it!

When Augusta popped her head in, saying, "The cab's ready! It's time to go, go, go!" she nearly had a heart attack at the sight of my bloodied hands. She rushed me over to a bathroom inside the Justice Building, muttering to herself "Why do they do this when there's plenty of time in the arena to hurt themselves?" while retrieving bandages from a cabinet. She insisted on fixing me up herself instead of getting the doctor, which was sweet, although I do admit she did a poor job. I had to remove the bandages, throw them away, and reapply others when she was gone.

Now Haymitch and I sit as far apart as we can, backs rigid, staring straight ahead. But then, as there is a long-awaited break in Augusta's extensive monologue, I glance at him, and he's looking right back.

There's still tension between Haymitch and I, but all of the sudden, he reaches out his hand. And, like a magnet, my hand is drawn to his. We are holding hands, and I am more confused than I ever have been. What about Lane Diblre? What is he thinking right now? It's nice to have a hand to hold, though. One so warm. I wonder how his skin can be so comfortingly scorching, without hinting that he is fevered.

But suddenly, as his burning-temperatured skin touches mine, I realise I've never felt so cold in my life.

~~~

Wordlessly, we follow Augusta from the cab to the train. It is not a quick transition, for there are many Capitolite reporters surrounding us, compelling me to feel moderately claustrophobic. Rosalina hides her face in Tyler's shirt, but he doesn't seem to notice her anymore, because he's throwing a couple camera-clad Capitol women sweet, winning smiles. They stare at him doe-eyed and snap a few photographs. Don't you know the boy's only thirteen?

Haymitch ignores the cameras, and, for once, I follow his lead. They'll see I have not cried today, though. They will put me down on their lists as someone to watch out for- or at least, for now. And that is a good thing.

I hesitate to board the train once I see all the grandeur. I'm almost tempted to run back into the crowd of Capitol reporters that cluster the entrance, breaking into a sprint and getting the hell out of here, running away from District Twelve and the Hunger Games and the Capitol and everything else. If I were the main role in an adventure novel, that is precisely what I would do. But I am not a character in a book. I am a real person, and chances are some Peacekeeper would force me onto the train before I could even get across the fence, so I do the only thing I can do. I step onto the plush carpet.

The whole place is so… bright. Opulent. Dazzling. So much that I feel that this is all an illusion. I've never seen this many colours before in one place, or this much food, or this much extravagance. The walls are pigmented with a subtle amethyst, barely clashing with the pleasant ochre hue of the lavish chairs. Refreshments of every kind clutter an expansive buffet table, a pile of fragile lace doilies resting at one end. Embellishments seem to be very reoccurring here: a pale green spiraling design is stenciled onto a wall, and it appears again close by, carved into an adjacent side table. There also are many plants, potted in beautiful hand-crafted bowls (made in District One, Augusta says), sprouting multicoloured flowers. A peony here, a hydrangea there, and an immense rose bush in a corner, stripped of all its thorns.

It seems like the amazement of it all has sucked all of the tears out of Rosalina and she's finally smiling, although tentatively. She bends over and touches a violet hesitantly, as if the petals will bite her if she is too harsh. Tyler is dancing around, grabbing pastries off sterling silver racks and stuffing them into his mouth, grunting noises of approval at the flavour. He knocks over an ornate vase, causing a flurry of movement as two women (Avoxes, I assume) hastily sweep up the shards, while Augusta scolds the thirteen-year-old for being so careless. And, in the midst of all of this, Haymitch looks bored to the point of death.

"Isn't it absolutely fabulous?" Augusta beams at us, with the exception of Tyler, whom she glares at (I assume because she is holding a grudge over the expensive, fabulous, and broken vase).

"About as fabulous as you," Haymitch mutters.

I snort, but Augusta doesn't seem to have been taught the definition of sarcasm. "Thank you!" She reaches up to pat him on the head, which causes me to laugh quietly to myself. Haymitch is tall- taller than many people, our escort included. My height is colossal compared to some of the girls in our year and still he clears me by an inch or two. His impressive size may gain him benefits in the Games.

As for my benefits? They're probably dwindling pretty low.

~~~

Tyler and Rosalina are staring out a circular window. Haymitch just left, the destination being his currently acquired room. Augusta is in the "bar car," probably indulging herself with a form of impotent alcohol: wine, maybe, or champagne. I stayed in this main compartment for the purpose of eating refreshments, mainly, but now the brother and sister are whispering to each other and I have to see what their wide, gray eyes are drawn to.

"What are you looking at?" I ask, noting the tears welling up in the corners of Rosalina's eyes yet again.

"Better look quickly," she says, pitifully, but with a twinge of bitterness in her tone. "This may be your last chance of seeing Twelve. It's obviously mine."

We just entered the train a few minutes ago, but never did it come to mind that the train was already on its long journey to the Capitol! Although I hate to be here, traveling to my probable death, I have to admire the flawless technology of the vehicle I stand inside. To move so smoothly, and at speeds of about three hundred and twenty kilometres per hour, is truly miraculous!

Rosalina and Tyler move silently to the sides of the window, so I have an unmarred view. And yes, there it is, almost a speck in the distance. District Twelve.

The place I call home.

The place I called home.

~~~

*finis de capitulum unus*


	3. 2: The Capitol, Part I

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

~~~

Chapter Two: The Capitol, Part I

Scared of losin' all the time

He wrote it in a letter, he was a friend of mine

He heard you could see your future

Inside a glass of water with ripples and the lines

And he asked, "Will I see heaven in mine?"

-Glass Of Water, Coldplay

~~~

Augusta has retrieved me from my room, as well as Haymitch, Rosalina, and Tyler from theirs. I note that all of us have changed into more comfortable clothing, Rosalina and I into flowing tunics and dark leggings, Tyler and Haymitch into tighter tops but looser denim pants. Quietly (and in Haymitch's case, sullenly), we follow our escort to a room where we will obviously dine in.

"This is Alder Blind," Augusta tells us, as we enter the compartment. A man sits at the gigantic mahogany table, staring at nothing in particular, his hand clutching a metal flask. He looks old and worn, as if life itself has beaten qhim down. I can tell by his unkempt gray hair and sunken eyes that he wants nothing to do with the life he lives.

Alder Blind is our mentor. He was winner of the nineteenth Hunger Games, which makes him forty-nine, but he looks so much older than that. It seems like all the years of mentoring tributes just to see them die brutally have gotten to him, because the first words out of his mouth are slurred (which makes me assume it is liquor in the flask) and harsh. "Let's face it, you're all going to die, so I can't help you. You'd best just keep your distance from me or else you'll face your ends before you're even in the arena."

These words shouldn't affect me the way they do, but as soon as the last syllable is uttered a bubble of anger rises up inside me and threatens to burst. This happens sometimes; my emotions get the better of me and I overreact. "Well," I snap, matching his severe tone. "Good thing I don't need your help."

I then proceed to turn on my heel and stomp out of the room.

~~~

In the lounge, there is a window that goes from floor to ceiling, running down the length of the compartment. Scattered around the lounge are various armchairs made of soft velvet, and not too long ago I sat myself in one close to the centre of the room. For the past half an hour I have been staring at the scenery as it changes to fruit-bearing trees, then long expanses of plains (we're probably passing District Ten at the moment) while gathering my thoughts. I don't know how to use weapons. I am not strong. I am not exceptionally beautiful- I don't even think I am beautiful at all. There is such a little chance I'll get out of the arena alive it's almost ridiculous. I won't see Myra again, or my father again, or Fauna.

I don't hear Haymitch when he enters, but once he comes up behind me, I recognize his faint reflection in the glass, and turn around. "What made you say it, sweetheart?" He asks.

"Say what?"

"That you don't need his help." He sighs, fixing me with a rueful, twisted half-smile. "I'm asking because deep down you know that's not true. We all need a mentor to get through this." He sits in a chair next to me, and I stare at a group of strange animals that are devouring grass about thirty metres away from the train tracks, with brown speckled coats, thick manes and tails, oval-shaped heads, and alert ears. They're soon gone. The train is very fast.

"I just wish he wouldn't give up on us. We might look feeble, but I'm strong, you're strong, Tyler's strong (for thirteen years old, at least), and Rosalina... well..." I shake my head., considering the ocean of tears she's cried today. "I'm sure she'll try her best."

Haymitch looks at me with an intense gaze, and I hold it without blinking. "From what you just did," he smirks, "he won't give up on you. You're not the typical merchant girl, Maysilee Donner."

I smile a half-smile that greatly resembles his, and stand up, making my way over to him. Leaning over, I brush a lock of hair out of his face, move my lips over to his ear, and whisper, "And you're not the typical Seam boy, Haymitch Abernathy." When I step away from him, his eyes are glazed over with an expression I've never seen him wear before. And when I turn to leave, he grabs my wrist.

"Maysilee?"

"Yes?"

"Do you want to know why Lane... is my girl?"

It's unexpected, and I recoil slightly. Just the mention of her sparks my anger, but interest as well. He has to have a reason behind the fact that he flirts with me, seemingly forgetting he has Lane. Enchantingly appealing Lane compared to mundane Maysilee? I know who I would choose over the other.

"Of course," I reply, recovering quickly.

"She's the richest girl in the Seam," Haymitch explains, "And my mother is... poor. She sold me, you know. Lane had fallen for me a while ago, and her parents offered my mother money in exchange for me dating their daughter, and eventually, marrying her.

"I don't love her. And she couldn't know this, for if I broke off the relationship, her parents would sue my family and we would be without money for a very long time. If I win these Games, I can break off the relationship… but if I win these Games…" He shakes his head sadly. "I'm sorry, sweetheart."

I wish his words could give me hope. A hope for a future, a hope for us... not that there would ever be an us, since I don't know if he feels for me what I feel for him, and I don't even know what I feel for him! I wish his confession would cure all my sorrows, leave me without doubts. But we are going to be in the Hunger Games. There will be one winner. And if my hope grows, then the results will be frightening. I cannot let the hope grow, or else it will become a burning flame that rises and rises until the water, the snow, comes crashing down upon it, quenching the hope, quenching the... the... whatever it is I'm feeling.

So I ignore the hope, ignore the feelings, and don't reach out to hug him like a caring person would. But I do defy my limits slightly when I ask, "Why are you sorry?" Because he shouldn't be. The fault falls to Lane, as well as her conspirators of parents and his desperate mother. But not Haymitch- he was the victim. And it is preposterous that a victim should blame himself.

"Because she fell in love with the act," he says, eyes downcast. "She has never known the true me. And that's my fault."

I examine him closely- his olive skin, his knit eyebrows, his silvery gray eyes. "What am I seeing now, Haymitch?" I ask him.

He doesn't reply.

~~~

"Mmm, this is really good!" Tyler's eyes light up as he takes a large bite of pasta doused in a creamy sauce.

"Isn't it?" Augusta looks pleased. "It is a very popular meal this year, and one of my favourites. Here, try the bruschetta, it is delicious!" She goes on, rambling about the traditional foods of the Capitol, while I take a small bite of roasted pig. Poor Rosalina can't seem to consume anything but bread rolls, and makes her way through only two before leaning back in her chair and letting silent tears streak down her cheeks. Alder takes a drink from his alcohol flask every once in a while, getting more and more distant as time goes by. Haymitch scowls, spearing his strawberries violently with his fork and devouring them one by one. Once there aren't any left, he goes for more.

Eventually, everyone is stuffed full of rich, fulfilling food (with an exception of Rosalina). Tyler has eaten so much that he's doubling over with the stomach cramps and looking queasy. "Are you okay?" I ask, and he just shrugs with a pained expression crossing his face. "Was the bruschetta too-"

"Don't talk about bruschetta!" Tyler exclaims quickly. "If you do I think I'm going to barf!"

"Okay, okay," I chuckle as we make our way to the lounge. There, we sit on multiple pieces of furniture set in front of an expansive flat screen television that is mounted on the lilac wall. Haymitch and Alder sit in reclining chairs and Rosalina and Tyler choose the upholstered loveseat, leaving Augusta and I to the couch. I inch away from her as much as possible, turning to look behind me out the floor to ceiling window. It's approaching dusk, but I can still make out a cluster of large trees. They seem to be emitting snow. No, that isn't snow. I've learned this before. The substance is… cotton? Yes, that's it, those are cottonwood trees, and we're in District Eight. Their industry is textiles.

Augusta clicks the television on and it is miraculously on the correct channel. Of course, our escort was probably watching it earlier, looking out for any fascinating information on what the arena might be like this year. Not that they ever give any hints.

Caesar Flickerman, host of many interviews in the Capitol as well as the official Games commentator, is involved in a playful banter with Jacen Iridescent, former victor of the 41st Hunger Games. Each victor has a special "talent" that they have to pursue, and as far as I know, Jacen's talent is going to the Capitol and doing talk shows. And he's good at it. He's arrogant, mischievous, witty, and Myra says he has the most dazzling smile in Panem. I don't like Jacen much, but that's only from watching the multiple interviews and talk shows he's participated in, so it's not my place to judge who he really is as a person.

"So, Jacen… do you think the tributes this year are interesting?" Caesar asks. They've seen the reapings live already, through the exclusive televisions the government provides them with. But most Capitolites don't have access to those televisions, having to wait until the recap to watch the reapings. Therefore, Jacen and Caesar have already taken notes on the tributes they'll comment on, which ones they should say are worth sponsoring, and so on.

"Of course, of course, Caesar!" Jacen exclaims. "They are every year. But with forty-eight tributes, this Games should be… exciting."

"And which tributes do you think have a chance?"

"The tributes from One, Two, and Four seem promising as always. District One, especially, has worthy tributes this year. I'm almost positive one will turn out a victor." And there he goes. Jacen is from District One, and, every year, he puts out a good word for his tributes. Surprisingly, in the past nine years he has been mentoring, only one tribute from his district has been crowned victor. And it wasn't even his tribute; it was his co-mentor's. Every district, excluding the Capitol and District One, thinks of this as some hilarious joke. Jacen Iridescent, the prettyboy who has more opportunities than anybody to get his tributes out alive, unable to save one after nine years of mentoring. The irony is considerable.

Caesar raises his deep green eyebrows good-naturedly. "Yes, I'm sure I speak for the Capitol when I say we are excited to see the more prospering districts' chosen! Anyone else?"

Jacen's shrug makes me glower at the television, for I'm sure there are plenty of worthy competitors in the mix this year. Tributes from the "Career districts," as they are called, normally fall under a certain stereotype: vicious, merciless, and good odds of winning. From the outlying districts, such as District Twelve, we are also put under the stereotype that we are weak and pathetic. And although (I hate to admit) the majourity are, some of us go against these stereotypes. Jacen, the idiot that he is, does not bother to find these stereotype-breakers from where they lie hidden in the assortment of tributes.

"Well!" Caesar does not seem bothered by his gesture, like I am. "The moment we've all been waiting for has arrived… the reapings of forty-eight boys and girls for the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games! And, as usual, we shall start with District One!"

At the phrase "District One," Jacen gives a dazzling smile that is followed up by Caesar's. Then, the screen splits so Caesar and Jacen are shown on one side, and the square of District One appears in the other.

District One is the absolute opposite of District Twelve… always has been and always will be. While everything in Twelve is covered in a layer of coal dust, One seems to be covered in a layer of gleaming golden polish. The district, much larger than ours, consists of three cities, separated by a crystalline river that branches out in three directions. The meeting point of all three branches is at the centre of all the cities, in which a "magical" fountain was placed long ago. The buildings are extravagant, but in a simplistic way, not garishly clashing like the Capitol (which I have not seen in person, but through the television at home). In short, the entire place resembles a utopian shrine for faeries.

But the people there are not faeries. Faeries are beautiful; faeries are fragile; faeries are the product of myths and fables. The residents of District One, however, are very much real. Most of them are beautiful, but not in the elegant, modest way of the faeries. More like a sultry, ostentatious beauty that is shown in their flawless skin and golden streaked hair and their green or hazel eyes that bore into you with a playful spite. Their cheers echo around the square and Caesar comments gleefully on the enthusiasm.

Their mayor, a slim woman with gorgeous light brown hair and emerald eyes, steps to the microphone. The cheers of the District One residents quiet slightly as she does this, but it takes much time before the mayor can speak and be heard. And once she does, saying, "Welcome, my kin," the roar of the crowd escalates until I almost have to cover my ears, exasperated.

After a bit, the mayor can finally continue, reading out of the small book that sits on the podium she stands behind. The Treaty of Treason has always been dull, and the fact that they never add any variation to it is extremely boring. I'm fed up with hearing it once a year- and then I consider that I'll be hearing it thirteen times today. Wonderful.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," the mayor recites, not in the monotone Mayor Undersee uses, but as if she is savouring the words. Then she goes on the read the list of the past District One victors. There are many: ten in total. They all grin viciously when their names are called. Thirty-eight year old Wonder Valentine, who won her Games by bashing in her counterpart's head with a tremendously stale loaf of bread; Idolia Agile, winner of the 36th Hunger Games, whose eyes have been altered by the Capitol so they are thoroughly white; Mafian Talent, who came out alive once his elder mentor, Jack Opal, sent bomb parachutes to the other remaining tributes. Jacen is the only one who is not present on the stage, for he was spending his time in the Capitol during the reapings. Once his name is called, he lets out a whoop from his seat next to Caesar, which makes the dark green-haired man chuckle slightly.

The mayor finally sits, and District One's escort, Fortuna Grinler, bounds up to the podium. Her hair looks as if it is made of spider webs, and her eyes resemble the spiders themselves, what with their coal black colour and lengthened lashes. She's going for a haunted theme, and it's obvious why… last year's Games were set in the midst of a never-ending haunted house.

"Happy, happy, happy, happy Hunger Games!" She screams into the microphone. This time I really do cover my ears. Fortuna's voice is so unnaturally high-pitched. "Aren't you all just really happy, happy, happy, happy? It is time for the reaping of four, four, four, four wonderful boys and girls!" As well as her annual theme, Fortuna, whom I've only ever seen through the television, has an unhealthy obsession with the number four. And with the announcement of four tributes this year, I'm sure she just about died of happiness, happiness, happiness, happiness!

"Now, now, now, now, let us begin with the reaping!" Fortuna exclaims, clapping her hands excitedly, and flouncing over to the girl's bowl. According to the rules, she is supposed to draw two names from that bowl. According to District One's tradition, she is supposed to knock over the bowl. She does the latter, and the glass bowl shatters when it hits the ground, emitting slips of white paper which flutter through the air like a million white butterflies. Instantly, a swarm of blonde- and brown-haired girls leap up to the stage. There is a lengthy scuffle in which the pulling of hair and jabbing of elbows occurs multiple times, and then two stand victoriously next to Fortuna, smirking.

Each has the microphone held under their painted lips, and they speak their names and ages. The first girl's name is Miracle- the names of District One citizens are always so ridiculous- and she is seventeen. She tosses her hair, smiling dazzlingly for the cameras, and I know that she is the typical shallow, brainless female Career from One.

But the other, whilst still beautiful, is also threatening. Platina is her name. She is eighteen, and glares at the camera with a mocking smile playing at her lips. She is one to watch out for, I know- and so do Caesar and Jacen. "Dangerous," Caesar comments. "I love it. Looks like you have a worthy tribute in your hands, Jacen."

"Oh, I know," Jacen laughs.

The same process happens for the boys' bowl, and about ten males go through a ruthless brawl until two conquer them all. They are twins, by the names of Intron and Exon. I don't get it… why would twins enter the Games, when only one can win, and there is a high possibility that both will die? I have a twin- I don't think I could stand it if I won and Myra died. There is only one conclusion I can make on this double volunteering: Intron and Exon are idiots.

Jacen and Caesar don't think so. "Brave," they remark in tandem.

Next, the screens switch to the many condensed villages that create District Two. The Treaty of Treason is read, the victors announced, and then the volunteers come forward. Venom, Lethae, Quarren, Lex. All dauntless, all ready to kill, all tributes to watch out for.

District Three is different. Only one boy looks like competition, and even then, he is tiny, with a shock of black hair and overlarge glasses. But the gaze he gives the cameras is calculating, and when led off the stage, he seems to drift away, blending with the crowd; like the smoke he was named for.

District Four appears next, as always. Each tribute mounts the stage with at least some level of confidence- and thry are: Siren, the beautiful; Naiada, the intelligent; Cleat, the muscular; and Frond, the amusing. Each has a quality that is admirable, but each probably lacks a quality that is admirable. Together, they will be strong, but split, they will shrivel and die. I do not think that District Four will have a victor this year.

Most of the other districts are unremarkable. Five and Six pass by without contributing anyone extraordinary. Seven holds some promise, but not much. Calico and Bolt from Eight are decently strong; tiny, fourteen-year-old Tess from Nine is very quiet. The boys from Ten seem to know each other, and Devon seems extremely protective of tiny Willie. From Eleven, the boys are all but invisible, the girls opposites, one tall and slightly confident, the other minuscule and shy, being only twelve. I feel bad for her, and Caesar and Jacen have nothing to say as she is reaped.

And finally, our district is displayed across half of the screen. It looks… desolate.

"And here we have District Twelve!" Caesar is saying. "Let's see if the tributes vary from what they have in the past." I am slightly offended by this, because I know that most of us die in the first day. Not that we are any more incapable than the other districts, but I think that we are more malnourished. But while Caesar does not cross the borderline, Jacen does.

"You mean, the typical weaklings that never stand a chance?"

It takes all my will not to fly at the television and punch it until it is broken all over the floor. Thank Panem I can contain myself, although my thoughts are not stifled. I will kill you, Jacen Iridescent, for denouncing my district like that!

I have to thank Caesar mentally for ignoring Jacen's words. Then, I focus on the screen, which displays the square in all its coal dust-covered glory. Mayor Undersee reads the Treaty of Treason yet again, Augusta mounts the stage yet again, and, yet again, she sticks her hand in the reaping bowl.

"Rosalina Dark!" Rosalina mounts the stage. "Tyler Dark!" Tyler mounts the stage, Rosalina sobs on the ground.

"Maysilee Donner!"

I locate my face in the midst of the sixteen-year-old girls. Fauna and Myra cling to me, but I shove them away, walking up to the stage. I mount the stage. It clearly shows that I am trying to hide my emotions, but I hide them well, because there is no grief shown on the face that is in the television. Good. I do not look pathetic.

"Well-fed, for Twelve," Jacen says.

"I agree. Look at the way she holds herself, too. Head held high, not slouching. I wouldn't count her out."

"Think she'll make it past the bloodbath?"

"Of course," Caesar says cooly. I smile. Thank you, Caesar. He always does his best to make any tribute shine, no matter how pathetic they are. He can twist tears of pain into tears of joy. He can turn a quiet young child into a mysterious one. He will spin anyone's appearance into one that is worthy of sponsors, putting in a good word for anyone, whether an eighteen-year-old man from District One or a twelve-year-old child from District Twelve. His way of helping people may seem a bit crazy- he is heavily involved with the Games- but his way of helping people does have its effect, although it may be small.

And then Haymitch is called, and he looks actually frightening through the cameras. Caesar says that Twelve could have a winner this year. Jacen, biased as he is, doesn't think so, but says at least one of us will make it to the final eight. Thanks for the vote of confidence, I think. I am hoping I have the chance to meet him one day and slap him upside the head.

The Capitol seal is flashing across the television, and the next thing I know, the screen turns black. Augusta is saying, "To bed, dearies, you have a big and fabulous day tomorrow." I don't think I'll sleep well tonight, but it may as well be worth a try. I stand, take one last glance at the snowing cottonwood trees, and exit the lounge in a sombre fashion.

~~~

I've been sitting on Rosalina's bed for a while now, just talking to her. I tried to simply go to the bathroom, which we share, and then continue on to my own room, but then she began to cry and I couldn't just leave her alone. I tried to comfort her- that didn't work so well- and then I blatantly asked, "Why are you acting so feeble?"

Rosalina had looked at me with shock. Her gray Seam eyes were wide and bloodshot, not as silvery as Haymitch's, but still holding a depth that my eyes couldn't seem to ever reach. She was quiet for a minute, and then said, with a confused tone, "I don't know."

"You do know tears won't get you anywhere, don't you? You do know that we should all just try to enjoy life while we can?"

"Yes… but…"

"What is wrong?"

Rosalina all but collapsed at this, shaking, but not sobbing like she had been all day. "I just don't know what to do, Maysilee!" She said into my shoulder, her voice muffled. "Daddy is feeling so terrible, and I was so close to getting the money for his lungs to get fixed up. Oh, God, I hate being... what I am... but it's worth it for Daddy. And then now I'm going to die- don't say I might live, I have no skills whatsoever- and he won't get any money. Mother is having enough troubles just paying the rent for our home, and Tyler had a job helping Greasy Sae dish out soup for people at the Hob, which was where we got all the money for food. But now Mother's going to have to pay for food too- Tyler's not going to make it either- and there will be no money for Daddy's lungs. And then he's going to die, Maysilee! He'll die because I'm not there for him!"

I had known that this was affecting Rosalina to some degree, but not this much. And, as a product of extreme brainstorming, I came to the realisation that I could do something about it. "Shh, Rosalina," I whispered. "If you really don't believe that you or Tyler will come back, then do you not believe that neither Haymitch or I will? If one of us returns home, then we'll do anything to help your father; we'll have so much money to spend, anyway, that it won't matter." She laughed at this, and I continued. "And if none of us return, I'll write a letter to my father, asking him to raise money for your family. We can write to Greasy Sae, too, and any family friends of yours, and quite possibly the mayor. We can ask Augusta or Alder to take care of it, and then your father will be absolutely fine. Okay?"

She had looked at me in wonder, and then a tiny half-smile tugged at her lip. "Do you really mean it? Oh, Maysilee, I've never met anyone who has been this kind to me before." And with that, Rosalina changed from a frail, sobbing, and broken girl to a laughing woman who was enjoying the life she had in the present. We've been talking for ages now, about our life, about ourselves- talking like I used to do with Fauna and Myra. I've found myself a friend, and a good one, despite her being two years my elder, despite the fact that we'll be thrown into the games almost five days from now. It's nice to talk to someone who understands me, though. It's nice to have a girl talk in one of the most dire points of my life.

Eventually, I do have to get to bed, and we brush our teeth at the sink of our bathroom. Then, I leave the room, entering mine. I don't bother to change out of my clothes as I fall into bed, smiling for the first time today. The bed is very comfortable. I've already took a nap in it today, before we met our mentor, but I still cannot get over its luxurious feel against my skin. Will it feel even more nice if I change into a nightgown? To find out, I reluctantly remove myself from the bed, going over to the small wardrobe that has been shoved into the room. Inside one drawer is a collection of silky dresses that are obviously used to sleep in. I choose an almost transparent, cream-coloured number and slip it on, throwing my tunic and leggings on the floor.

Throwing them on the floor. I look at the floor. It is cold, made of a dull brown wood, which I already know… and I threw my reaping dress on it earlier. So why isn't the dress on the floor? Did an Avox, one of the servants whom cannot speak on account of their tongues being gruesomely cut out of their mouths, come and take it to be washed? Will I ever see the dress again? I particularly liked that dress. It really is too bad I cannot wear it again. I feel a pang of guilt for leaving it on the floor.

Instead of dwelling over my loss, I climb into bed. I was correct- it's even more comfortable sleeping in such a fine garment. Somehow, I manage to drift off to sleep quickly, despite my traumatic day.

~~~

I wake up very early the next morning. I've always been somewhat of an early riser, and I can't help it. This will work to my advantage in the Games, I think.

At first, I wonder where I am. The ceiling above my head is very low, even lower than Myra's and my room at home. Myra… I am hit with a wave of nausea as I remember yesterday's events. The thought that the people of the Capitol can go about their ways every day, anticipating the reaping, sickens me.

Flinging the duvet aside (which is hard to do, for it provides much comfort), I step onto the hardwood floor. This room is much different from everyone else's. It's a long story, but there are only five compartments to sleep in: two tribute compartments, two mentor compartments, and one for our escort. We have only one mentor, though, so Haymitch took the empty mentor compartment. The tribute compartments were apparently "too small" to move an extra bed into, so I couldn't share with Rosalina, meaning I had to resort to sleeping in a storage room.

There's really nothing wrong with this room. It is very large, for only a cleaning supplies storage area. A twin-sized bed can fit easily inside, as well as the wardrobe of clothes, which somehow are able to adapt to fit my body. The only problem is that there isn't a bathroom, which is why I'm sharing with Rosalina.

I retrieve a black tank top, shorts, and undergarments from the small closet, and wrap a robe around myself in case anyone is wandering around (at this hour? It's doubtful, but possible). Don't want any male members of our party to see me in a semi-transparent nightgown! Then, I head to Rosalina's room. She's sleeping, so I don't make any sound as I tiptoe to our bathroom and lock the door, remove the clothing that I wear, and step into the shower.

It is complicated to work, but as I've never taken a shower, that's expected. After a long time of studying multiple buttons, pushing them, and either feeling pleased or exasperated with the results, I step out, clean at last. An odd machine that stands at either side of the shower entrance starts to make a humming noise, and I jump, but in seconds it has dried me off and my hair looks like spun gold instead of its usual dirty blonde colour.

I turn to the clothes I chose to wear and put them on, grab my bathrobe and nightdress, and exit the bathroom, just to come face-to-face with a fierce-eyed Rosalina. The look in her eyes is odd, because I only saw kindness in them last night. She must not be a morning person, and I must have woken her up. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I wake you up?" I ask.

She frowns, staring at me for a moment. Her black hair is tangled, but there aren't any dark circles under her eyes, so I have to assume she got a decent amount of sleep last night. "No," she says.

The finality in her tone shocks me a bit, and the way she glares at me is slightly disturbing. I edge away from her, but she grasps my arm. "They're going to kill us," she whispers to me, and her pupils widen in horror as our eyes meet. "They're going to kill you!" The volume increases as she says this.

"Who are?" I ask, confused. This is very odd. Why is Rosalina acting like this?

"They are!" She screeches. "If we don't kill you first they are going to kill you! They were never supposed to be here and they'll kill us both!" Rosalina screams nonsense louder and louder and I am in a state of shock and fear until all of the sudden, she stops.

"Rosalina?" I ask tentatively. I realize she's crying. "Rosalina?"

"I didn't mean it," she says tearfully, apologetically. "I'm sorry. We won't kill you."

"Who's we? And who's they?"

"They shouldn't be here." She looks up at me again, and I see her eyes are glazed and unfocused.

"Who, Rosalina?"

"The mutts."

"The mutts?" I ask in alarm.

"Yes. The mutts. Birds, birds, birds. Stay away from the birds, Maysilee Donner." And then she faints dead away.

~~~

After Rosalina's episode, I sit on my bed in my room. Her screams woke everyone up, and since it was six o'clock, Augusta, Alder, and Haymitch were all pretty pissed. (Rosalina is Tyler's sister, so he was a bit more sympathetic.) But, since it was six o'clock, everyone decided to go back to bed and pretend none of it ever happened.

I turn my mockingjay pin around and around in my fingers. The rising sun shines through my window- (a window! In a storage room!)- and glints off the golden metal. I'm sure if the pin is solid gold, it would be worth quite a lot of money, but I have no intention to sell it. Not that I could if I wanted to. And if it's just gold plating, well, it's still from home.

I think of what Rosalina said. Stay away from the birds, Maysilee Donner. I stare at the pin. It's a mockingjay. A bird. I spin the pin around faster in my hand, looking at it in horrified fascination. How can I stay away from birds if I'm going to be wearing one in the arena? And why was she spouting all of that nonsense? Can she really tell the future? It's spinning and spinning, out of control, and then I give a yelp of surprise as the needle-like fastener pricks me. The pin drops to the ground and rolls away.

From afar, I glare at it. Why did Father have to give me that pin, I wonder, if it might as well be a good-for-nothing omen of death?

~~~

Breakfast proves to be as awkward as I expected. Alder frowns the entire time, practically drowning himself in a clear liquor combined with cranberry juice. He gives me a few odd looks that I assume are the result of my outburst yesterday, but he says nothing. Augusta leaves halfway through, complaining of major headaches and saying she'll "just rest a bit before we reach the Capitol." I suppose she just wants another hour of sleep.

Haymitch doesn't seem to have an appetite, choosing to consume just a couple of wafer-thin biscuits. Rosalina, ironically, is helping herself to fourths on food. She's probably hungry, having eaten little to nothing at dinner last night. I don't speak to her, though, since my mind is still reeling about her warnings. Tyler seems to be the only one of us willing to talk, but the smile he wore proudly at breakfast has slowly dwindled over time.

Haymitch suddenly leans over me and whispers, "Sleep well, sweetheart?"

Actually, I have. As I mentioned before, it's quite surprising. I have nightmares often, but after speaking with Rosalina the night before, I fell into a deep, content sleep. "As well as you," I observe, as he does not have dark circles under his eyes.

He raises an eyebrow. I snort in response. "Oh, please, don't look at me like my answer is surprising. I sleep well at inappropriate times. That's just who I am. Better brace yourself."

After a slight pause, Rosalina says, "And care no more." I look up at her, and her gray eyes bore into me as if she's looking into my thoughts. At first I'm confused about her puzzling and off-subject comment, but then I understand the meaning behind it.

"Don your jacket, walk out the door," Tyler pipes up next, catching on.

"In the fields of strife," I sing out clearly.

"You'll take a life."

"And that life you'll take is yours."

Alder stands up to leave, grumbling something about pitiful district songs that have the most irritating tunes, which I do not agree with the least bit. Whilst he makes quick exit, all three of us sing out the lyrics of one of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard. A song I've only heard a couple times in our district, because it speaks of suicide, and the Peacekeepers forbade talk of such things long ago. It's a sad tune; eerie, haunting; and for some reason, it fits well with the situation now. Tyler, Rosalina, and I sing and sing until the song ends.

~~~

Brace Yourself:

"There's nothing left to love

No one left to give

There's a below but no above

There's no point trying to live

Wipe the coal dust from my eyes

Write a note with my good-byes

Bet there's nobody who cries

When they tell them that I'm gone.

Brace yourself

And care no more

Don your jacket, walk out the door

In the fields of strife

You'll take a life

And that life you'll take is yours.

I get up each day for nothing

I try so hard to care

As for emotion, there should be something

But I search to find none there

I have lived here forever

But the ties need to be severed

And they'll know of my endeavor

When they tell them that I'm gone.

Brace yourself

And care no more

Don your jacket, walk out the door

In the fields of strife

You'll take a life

And that life you'll take is yours."

~~~

I notice Haymitch isn't singing, just staring into the distance as if thinking deeply about past experiences. I reach out and touch his arm softly, but at the moment of contact he jerks away. "Are you okay?" I murmur.

"Oh, sorry. Yeah… I'm… I'm fine, sweetheart. I've just got to go for a second," he says huskily, turning away from me.

"Haymitch… are you crying?" I'm concerned. He isn't the type of person who cries. Not that I know him enough to-

"NO!" He snaps at me. "Mind your own business, Mays."

There's something wrong about this. Not the aggressive, angry tone he uses, but something much different. My name, I realise. He's shortened my name. Doesn't he always call me Maysilee? Why is it Mays now? What have I done to him? I pull away from Haymitch, feeling like I've been slapped as he flees the scene. The hurt I feel is enormous. I was trying to be empathetic. I wanted him to know someone cared about him... but maybe he doesn't want someone to care about him.

"Brace yourself, and care no more, don your jacket, walk out the door…"

Well, maybe I won't care anymore. Maybe I should just shove the emotions I experience when he is in the room down so far I won't be able to tell they're there. I shouldn't have any feelings for him anyway. We are going to compete in the Hunger Games. And there will only be one winner.

"…in the fields of strife, you'll take a life, and the life you'll take is yours."

I can't help but feel the odds aren't, never will be, and were never supposed to be, in my favour.

~~~

"We're approaching the Capitol!" Augusta shouts excitedly, her violet hair bobbing up and down, her bright orange teeth flashing. The coal hat from yesterday is absent from the picture. I have the feeling Augusta has discarded it and will never wear it again.

In the distance, I see what appears to be a small cluster of buildings materialize on the horizon. Then, it gradually grows larger and more exquisite as we rush to our destination. The buildings seem to touch the sky, and are all different colours ranging from the brightest whites to the blackest of blacks, at times so black they're almost green-tinged. The nearer we get, the more visible the traits of the Capitol are: one contrasting area consisting of a purple-leaved hedge and a ruby-red building, topped off with lemon-yellow balconies and awnings.

But what is more intriguing now is the people. Looking down at them all, it seems like I am above a sea of multi-coloured birds of paradise. In fact, one of the Capitol women is actually dressed up as a peacock (something I've only seen in a dictionary, and is easily distinguishable by its prominent feathers) and is screaming manically at the train we are on. Tyler, Rosalina, Haymitch and I are standing in the compartment with the full-length window, ogling at the ever-growing crowd. Augusta stands behind us, smiling and waving and looking very pleased with herself.

For a second, I wonder if these people were the birds Rosalina was talking about when she had her episode. But I instantly contradict myself because these Capitolites aren't mutts. They're people. Peculiar, naïve, and almost fluorescent-looking people, but people all the same. They won't kill me.

"What are you doing?" A voice barks from behind us, and we all swivel around to face Alder. "Are you all idiots?"

We're all clueless to what he's talking about, so we keep our mouths shut.

"Wave at them, you dumbasses! Smile! None of you are gonna get any sponsors if you sit around and stare at them all day. I expected better from you! You!" He glares at me, and I cower away. "For not needing my help, you sure aren't capable of helping yourself, young lady!" And with that, he turns on his heel and stalks out of the room. My mouth is open in shock. I've never heard the man speak more than a few words, and when he does, he gives us a lecture on smiling and waving.

I watch as Tyler and Rosalina smile and wave, as instructed. I feel paralyzed, unmovable, and scared to death as the Capitol citizen's faces blur together into one single mass of colourful light and grotesque outfits and wide-open mouths.

"Not going to follow his advice? Even if it's what you wanted in the first place?" Haymitch has snuck up behind me again, and his voice is sharp and taunting in my ear.

"Turns out that I'm not the actor, you are. And it also turns out I'm having the crappiest day of my life."

"Yesterday wasn't, sweetheart?"

"Some things are still sinking in from yesterday. Like the fact that you are an arrogant, frustrating jerk who doesn't want my empathy. So you can just go away now," I scowl.

Haymitch's eyes go wide, and a look of disbelief crosses his face. But once the hurt begins to envelop his features, he wipes all expression from his appearance. I can almost picture him lifting up a mask that covers his face, showing an emotionless boy who wants nothing to do with me. How much practice has he had at hiding underneath the surface? I wonder. How much does Haymitch Abernathy have to act? Why can't he just be himself?

As I walk away, I realize that maybe the true Haymitch is so terrifying that even Haymitch himself wants to hide from his real personality. Or maybe the old Haymitch was, and he has changed and doesn't even know it, so he continues to hide. ...Something along those lines.

And with this thought on my mind, I mentally forgive Haymitch Abernathy for any mean-spirited comments that emit from his mouth- based on whether or not he is acting while the said words are spoken.

~~~

Loathing. That's what comes to me when I try to sort out my feelings for my stylist. Complete, unadulterated loathing.

I thought Augusta's hair looked unflattering, but Rosea's looks absolutely hideous. Yes, that's her name: Rosea. It means pink, in the old language. It fits her perfectly.

"Tut, tut," she squeaks. Her coral-painted fingernail jabs my arm as she pokes me. "You'll have to do." Shaking her head, she leans back and examines me some more.

My skin is burning, but from getting stripped of most of my hair or embarrassment, I'm not sure. Probably a mixture of both. After all, I'm not exactly comfortable having a stylist look at my body who is three and a half feet tall, has pink hair made of strips of rubber stapled to her scalp, no eyebrows, and pink skin covered in pink tattoos. It also doesn't help that she is wearing the most provocative dress I have ever seen (see through material! That is pink!), and has already told me more than once that she prefers girls. In that way.

I think that Rosea is new this year. Actually, I know Rosea is new this year. District Twelve's previous usual stylist, Genus Maske, was kicked out for making the last female go naked to her interviews. Yes, naked. I felt so sorry for Lela Hunter for I'm sure her entire life was scarred from her three minutes of fame (or, should I say, Capitol men gaping soundlessly at her perfect, yet very slightly emaciated, body). She placed twenty-first in the 49th Annual Hunger Games. No sponsors could have helped her.

I'm expecting that Rosea might pull a Genus Maske and send me away in as little clothing as possible. Which is why I'm dreading to see my opening ceremonies costume.

It's almost as if she can read my thoughts, because now she is chattering away. "Don't you want to see your costume? Well, of course you do! You will look cute as a button, but very sexy at the same time. Of course, the outfit's black, but that's okay. Has to reflect your district, you know!" She lets out a tinkling laugh that makes me want to regurgitate my lunchtime meal. "I did suggest pink, but the other stylists turned me down. They're all sugarplums, especially Opalescent, Tyler's stylist- she is just so sexy- and her nickname, Pales, so cute- but sometimes I really don't think they have much common sense. You'd look absolutely beautiful in pink, honey!"

I don't listen to a word she says after that- it's probably all nonsense, anyway. Soon there is a knock on the door, and my prep team enters, giggling excitedly to one another. One carries a bundle, which I suppose is my costume, that is covered in rough brown paper.

"Can we put it on her now, Rosea?" Squeals one. Her name is Prond, I think, and she looks almost normal. Straight auburn hair, pale skin- and then you spy the numerous lip rings she has. There must be at least two dozen. How the lady can even eat or talk is a mystery to me.

"Of course you can," Rosea sits back to watch. I close my eyes and they instruct me to step into a pair of baggy pants… at least, that's what I think they are. Then they pull a silky garment over my head and it can only be a breastband. Straps go over my shoulders and I think that the pants must be overalls, or else, I'm wearing suspenders. After that, something is smeared onto the bare parts of my body, and then they announce me as "done," "perfect," "gorgeous," and "looking absolutely splendid, hon, sure you don't want to date me?"

I open my eyes, and, looking at my reflection in a full-length mirror, I decide one thing. I loathe my stylist, but I loathe this outfit more.

The kohl lined around my eyes makes me look fierce and dangerous, and purple lipstick that I (somehow) like adds to the effect, but the compliments stop there. It is provocative, it is trashy, it is horrible. It is not a work of art. They have adorned me in a lacy black breastband and a baggy coal miner's jumpsuit that has the sleeves cut off. The neckline goes so low you can see half of the breastband, the sleeve holes showing even more of the lacy undergarment. The pants are ripped "artistically." They have teased my hair slightly ("you look like you've just come out of a fight!" Rosea says, clapping her hands) and covered my arms, chest, back, and face in black paint, with glitter sprinkled on top. Not to mention, the jumpsuit and breastband are decorated with enormous black cotton ball-like puffs, meant to represent lumps of coal. Rosea has obviously never even seen coal in her life.

I look trashy. I look like a prostitute. Like a whore.

"Thank you," I choke out, which is a very hard feat. But my prep team and stylist don't notice because they're celebrating their "splendid" work. They just squeak, "You're very welcome!" and dance around some more.

In my opinion, I shouldn't have thanked them.

~~~

Tyler stares at me as I walk towards him. The stare is full of surprise and approval (at my breasts especially) and automatically I feel disgusted. This boy is three years younger than me and to him I'm attractive. Attractive only when I'm dressed in a disastrous and poor attempt of a replica of coal miner's getup. I scowl and look Tyler up and down to see he looks like a skinny little boy trying to look desirable (even though he's more well fed than some of the boys that come from the Seam).

"What?" I ask sharply, and Tyler ducks his head and blushes.

"S-s-sorry," he stutters, and I put my hands on my hips. We stand in silence for a minute, trying not to look at each other, and it must be the most awkward situation I've ever been in.

We're not quite saved when Rosalina enters, but it's not as uncomfortable. She fills out her costume better than I do (ours are identical) but she hates it equally as much as me. She probably has worn this sort of stuff before to appeal to Peacekeepers and wants to leave the past in the past. I feel sorry for her. Tyler doesn't stare at her because they're brother and sister, and they strike up a conversation about what they think the other tributes will wear. Both bet that District Four has the prettiest costumes.

Then Haymitch enters, and I let out an involuntary gasp which I cover with a slight cough. He wears the same thing as Tyler: a baggy coal miner's suit, with the sleeves cut off as well as the front and the back, so that only straps remain to hold up the pants part, decorated with small puffs of dark cotton set equal distances apart. There is black paint where his shirt should be, as well as every other bare inch of his body besides his face. And yes, he's skinny and underfed. But his abdominal muscles are well defined, his skin is smooth underneath all the paint, his hair shines, and his eyes stand out beautifully. From closer inspection, I see his stylist has outlined his eyes in silver eyeliner, which is a little odd, but brings out the silver in his gray irises.

He saunters over to us, seemingly uncaring about what he's wearing, and notices both Rosalina and I gaping at him. "See something you like?" He asks seductively.

"In your dreams," I fire at him, recovering first, but not really meaning my words. He is very... attractive, to be honest.

"You look ridiculous," Rosalina giggles.

"Look who's talking," Tyler points out, which sends us all into a bout of laughter. Because it's true. We all look ridiculous; like (not-quite-so)-miniature prostitutes. I'm sure we'll never get sponsors, but it's okay because we can laugh about it.

It's at this moment that despite our differences, and despite the fact Haymitch doesn't want me to care about him, and despite the fact that Rosalina scared me to death this morning, and despite the fact that Tyler thinks I am attractive in this ugly costume, I feel that we are family. A messed up family consisting of kids that will have to kill each other in less than a week, but still, a family. And that's all I can ask for. That this family will last as long as it possibly can.

~~~

We wait a while for someone to come and tell us what to do, but nothing is explained to us. Other districts stand in this hallway, but people that I assume to be their mentors whisk them into large, black vehicles and drive them towards the starting point of the opening ceremonies. "What do you reckon we do?" Tyler asks, looking around for Alder, who seems to have forgotten about us. All the other Districts have left, and there is only one car parked outside of the glass doors.

"I say we keep waiting," Rosalina announces, attracting a few stares from the brightly-dressed Capitol citizens that mill about inside the building, doing whatever they're supposed to be doing.

A few beats of silence, and then Haymitch says, "Come on, let's just get to the starting point ourselves."

"But we can't walk, I'm sure it's very far away!" Rosalina looks horrified. "Plus, we'd attract so many stares!"

"Who said we were walking?" Haymitch's eyes glint mischievously as he grabs both my arm and Rosalina's, steering us toward the doors. I take a glance over my shoulder and see Tyler following behind us, a confused and wary expression on his face. Haymitch tows us to the size of the large automobile, forcing the brother and sister pair into the back seats I into the shotgun seat. He himself jumps into the driver's seat and fumbles with an overhead compartment, removing a key, and inserting it into the correct slot.

"What are you doing?" Rosalina says in a panicked tone of voice.

"Driving you, sweetheart," he says cooly.

"Have you ever driven before?" I ask, eyes wide.

"No," he says to me, his eyes laughing like they almost always are. "But there's a first time for everything, is there not?" He puts his foot on the gas petal and pulls away from where we are parked, hands loosely gripping the wheel as he speeds up. His eyes are on the road until he looks at me, realising that I am fretting about the fact that we may die today. "Maysilee, just relax," Haymitch says soothingly, and I do, getting lost in those eyes, those gray and silver-flecked irises that-

"HAYMITCH, LOOK OUT!" The spell is broken as Rosalina screams and Haymitch swerves to avoid the collision with some sort of sign. Passing by it, I read the words, "Underage driving is not permitted."

Ha. No kidding.

~~~

After the most wild, terrifying, and (I have to admit) thrilling ride of my life, Haymitch gets us all to the opening ceremonies starting point in one piece. "I hate you," I tell Haymitch as he helps me out of my seat, but smiling because he really is the most dauntless person I have ever gotten the chance to meet.

"Everyone does."

"Not me!" Tyler says. "That was awesome!"

Rosalina and I glare at him. No point in adding "awesome" driving to Haymitch's list of things that have added on to his ego over the years. Tyler lowers his head and flushes, though I'm sure it has less to do with he fact that he fact that we disapprove of his comment and more to do with the fact that two older girls, albeit one being his sister, are glaring at him.

~~~

"Scared, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks, smirking.

"Just as scared as you," I say defiantly, although my hands are shaking. I try to cover this up by gripping the side of the chariot, but he notices. Haymitch always notices.

"Well then," he says, holding back a laugh. I don't see what's so funny, but I'm saved from his next words because Rosea is running up to us, letting out occasional squeals of delight at the sight of Haymitch and I. In her hands she carries two bright orange objects, covered in black puffs like our costumes are.

"Here!" She says breathlessly, shoving them at each of us. I take mine. I realize it's a hard hat with a headlamp attached to it. The neon orange matches the colour of the too-large boots Rosea made me wear. I scowl at the hat, and Haymitch says, "Let me guess, Rubber, we have to wear these."

His comment on Rosea's hair brightens my mood considerably and I snort in concealed laughter. For once, Rosea looks genuinely offended. "My name's Rosea," she sniffs. "And you should know that because I'm the only lesbian stylist in the history of Panem, and the shortest too!"

I put my head into my hands, exasperated, at her openly candid attitude. She should not have said that. Haymitch's eyebrows seem to shoot up so high they disappear off his face, and he starts cackling madly. "Oh, really, Rubber? Crushing on Maysilee?" He shoots me a wicked grin and I fix him with a death glare.

"Yes, yes, she's very… sexy." Rosea reaches up and runs a finger down my arm. I jump at the touch, and then screech profanities at her, causing her to run away in fright.

"You sure know how to scare off a girl," Haymitch jokes.

I scowl at him, ripping the orange hard hat from his hands. He doesn't protest as I toss it over the side of the chariot, along with mine. Won't be needing those. "Oh, shut up. Must I ask, where's your stylist?"

"Threatened that I'd kill her if she made me wear this. She said, "Then go naked," and left. I had no choice but to wear it, and I don't know if she's coming back," he laughs it off. "I may have also put up a good fight against wearing lipstick. Eyeliner is enough."

"You sure know how to scare off a girl," I muse, throwing his own words back at him.

"How funny that however many times I try to scare you off, you just seem to rebound off a wall and fly right back at me," he says. This time he looks serious, though. I'm about to ask, why are you trying to scare me off, then? But the huge oak doors slowly slide open, and I watch as District One's first chariot, which includes Miracle and Exon dressed in nothing but undergarments studded in gleaming diamonds, starts to roll forward. I hear loud cheers coming from outside the doors, but all I see is the flashing of cameras and a swirl of bright colours.

"Ready?" I ask. My hands are shaking very hard now and I clutch the bar that is right in front of me.

There is silence from his end as we start to roll forward, but then he sees my hands. "Here," he whispers, taking one of my hands in his, squeezing it tightly. "It'll be okay, Maysilee."

Platonic. This relationship has to be purely platonic, I tell myself. I squeeze his hand back, and we hide it between us so none of the audience can see that we have a relationship at all.

The chariot glides through the open wooden doors and we are met by deafening noise. It's much more toned down than the cheers the Capitolites gave District One, but that's okay… at least my eardrums won't burst from the noise. As we travel down the paved street, crowds of people dressed in the most outrageous outfits I've ever seen lean over the barriers that have been set up to keep them from swarming the chariots. Their hands reach out to touch us, grab us, wave at us; they shout "District Twelve!" and a couple times I hear Haymitch's and my names. I feel slightly bad for Rosalina and Tyler, whom are in the chariot ahead of us, because their names aren't called- and since they're actually wearing their hard hats.

I stare at all of the Capitol citizens, a little flustered, and then suddenly remember Alder yelling at us. Wave at them, you dumbasses! Smile! None of you are gonna get any sponsors if you sit around and stare at them all day. So, in attempt to look like I'm actually enjoying this, I put a half-smile and release Haymitch's hand, raising it to wave at a couple of young men.

They catch my eye, and in their expression I see desire, which disgusts me, but I ignore it. When I smile, one of them swoons, I think. I'll play this to my advantage. More sponsors is a good thing. A very good thing.

I smile and wave, the crowd eating it up, and I am very proud of myself. Then Haymitch has to ruin it when he grabs my arm, whispering furiously in my ear, "What are you doing? Keep in mind those are the people that will watch with glee as forty-seven children die in front of their very eyes."

I pause. I examine the shouting faces of the Capitolites, and the world seems to switch to slow motion. But now that I see these people from the Capitol, I don't see just their excited expressions. I look deeper and see that they are all, each and every one of them, lusting for viciousness. Waiting for the day the Games will finally start. They are literally cheering for my death.

I drop my hand and gasp in horror. What have I done? By waving at them they will like me more, and when I die they will watch with fascination because it was me and not some other nameless, faceless tribute. Why was I waving at them? Why, why, why?

We loop around the City Circle once, and then come to a stop below a huge balcony that President Snow resides on. As soon as everyone has calmed down slightly, he steps up to the podium and presents the same speech he recites every year. I tune it out, because I already have the words memorized. Instead, I keep thinking about the Games, and how the people of the Capitol will think of my death as entertainment and not tragedy, and the birds Rosalina screamed at me about and how they're supposed to kill me. I'm going to die- going to die- going to die.

We loop around the City Circle again and then all the chariots come to a full stop. I see Augusta, Rosea, and Rosalina and Tyler's stylists, and they congratulate us, beaming. Rosea seems to have forgotten the hurtful comment Haymitch said to her not too long ago and gives him a very large hug around his waist (being so tiny, her head is positioned at his abdomen, which must be very uncomfortable).

I am tired of all the commotion, and decide not to wait for the others. I enter a building that is right in front of me, which I assume is the Training Centre. The main floor is very small, consisting of a small desk which a Capitol woman sits behind and a lift. When I gesture to the lift she nods to me, and I take this as my cue to enter it. One side is made completely of glass, and the sun is low in the sky as I look toward the horizon. The Capitol stretches out for miles. It is so large.

On another wall, there are fourteen buttons. One of the buttons has a small star on it, and I know that is meant to signify the main floor. Above it are the numbers one through twelve: a floor for each district. Below it all is another button with a 'T' labeled clearly on it. I suppose that is where training occurs.

Making a fairly educated guess, I push the number twelve, and the lift shoots upward at record-breaking speed. In no time, there is a soft ding and the doors open up to a flat with plush carpet and a colour theme of lime green and cerulean blue. The first thing that catches my eye is a table already covered with food of all kinds, but I dismiss it. I'm not hungry. The Capitol's food is very rich and satisfying, and I'm still full from my brief luncheon.

Instead, I head directly to a hallway with doors on either side. One door has a plaque on it that reads "girl tribute," and I enter it cautiously. Inside, there are two twin beds, a wardrobe, a desk, and another door that I assume leads to the bathroom- this is all I need. I'll share this room with Rosalina, but for the moment, it's mine.

Stripping all my clothes off, I instantly hop into the shower. It's the same as on the train, and thankfully, I remember where the button for perfect-temperature water is located. I press it, as well as a few others that come to mind as not drastically unnecessary, and once I'm finished, I step out onto the air-dry mat. Next, I travel to the wardrobe and choose a nightdress from about ten different styles. There isn't much variation in size for Rosalina because we are about the same height, and I'm instantly reminded of Myra. At this thought, it feels like I have a weight on my heart. I choke back a small sob that sneaks up on me quickly. I will not cry.

Distant clinking comes from the dining room. I crawl under the soft covers of my bed and listen to the sound of silverware on china, as well as the murmuring of multiple voices. After a while, it lulls me to sleep.

~~~

I wake up from my nightmare, shivering and doused in cold sweat. I dreamt that Haymitch, Myra and I were in the arena. Haymitch was going to kill me with a knife, but Myra stepped in front of me at the last second, taking the blow of the thrown blade. I ran to her side, screaming, but then he threw another knife at my forehead and the last thing I ever saw was his gorgeous, smirking face.

I lay back down and try to fall asleep again, but it's no use. I'm wide awake now. Silently, I let the duvet slip from my body and leap out of bed. A glowing clock on my bedside table reads that it is one in the morning, and Rosalina is sound asleep in the bed parallel to mine, so I tiptoe out of the room and down the hall to the dining room.

In the dining room, the table is cleared for once, but there is an Avox sitting on one of the chairs, ready at attention for whomever might want something to eat at this early hour. I wonder if they ever sleep, and then contradict myself. Of course they do. They're human beings. Avoxes probably just work in shifts.

I place a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, and he whirls around, wide-eyed. He calms slightly as he sees it's only me- not Augusta or Alder or anyone from the Capitol.

"Do you have tea?" I whisper.

He nods once and takes some sort of contraption out of his pocket. Once he presses a button, a small whirring sound starts up and I see, in the corner of the room, a small table rising up from the floor.

The Avox gestures me to go to it, and after thanking him, I do. On the table is a small pot of water that is steaming, as well as a bowl full of many different types of tea packets. There are mugs, as well, and sweeteners located in a corner.

I choose a mug and fill it with the hot water, then select a tea packet from the bowl. It's peppermint-flavoured. I've had it before, because Fauna has always been fond of peppermint and, since her parents have a wide selection of herbs in their shop, sometimes we buy a little of the plant. When we were little, Myra, Fauna and I would gather the mint leaves, pour boiling water into her teapot, and let the leaves stew in the pot for about five minutes. Then we'd have tea parties and act like snooty, prim and proper women, with our pinkies extended and our noses upturned at each other. I've never had tea in a packet before, though.

After adding a couple sugar cubes to the mix, I nod at the Avox and he presses the button again. The table sinks into the floor. It's miraculous, really, how the Capitol has luxuries (such as tea) coming out of nowhere. They want it, and it appears. Nothing like District Twelve, where we've had to work for everything we've ever gotten, except for the hair on our heads.

Having not explored yet, I head the opposite direction of where our rooms are located, deciding just to risk it. There are five doors leading to different places, so I take a wild guess and enter the one on the far right. I find myself in a lounging area, and am very pleased with myself at having such good sense of direction.

Leaning back on the sofa, I take a sip of the peppermint tea and smile. It tastes wonderful, and brings back good memories.

Movement from my left catches my eye, and automatically I set my mug down on the coffee table (as not to spill the tea) and move into a fighting stance, just to see Haymitch sitting in a swiveling arm chair, arms crossed and eyes laughing at me.

"How long have you been here?" I exclaim, then cover my mouth. I am too loud. I have already forgotten it's one in the morning.

"Long enough, sweetheart."

I sigh at his vague comment, rolling my eyes. "Sure know how to sneak up on me."

"So you better watch your back in the Games."

"Oh, no," I smirk, grasp my mug of tea, and stride over to the arm chair next to him. "If there's one person in the Games who won't stab me in the back, it's you." He raises an eyebrow, but doesn't respond. I decide to change the subject. "What did I miss earlier?"

This makes him laugh. "You missed nothing, really, just Alder throwing a tantrum." He proceeds in a realistic imitation of a raging Alder. "'You little idiots! You two, brother and sister, you looked like expressionless robots! Hayden, why couldn't you get that scowl off your face? And that Miranda, she was doing fine and then she looked like an unhinged little girl who'd just seen a ghost!' Really, he needs to start getting our names right."

I'm laughing by the time he finishes. "So pretty much, he hates us all."

"That's one way to put it."

"You know it was your fault, by the way. That I stopped waving, and smiling," I say lightly, taking a sip of my tea.

Haymitch stares at the floor with a queer expression drifting over his features. "Do you want to know why I said it?" He asks thoughtfully, but doesn't wait for me to answer. "You reminded me too much of myself. While you put on the cheery act, I put on the indifferent act. I couldn't stand it. It had to be one of us who showed their true colours."

I'm frozen in my seat. "And why did you choose me to… show my true colours?"

"Because it is too difficult for me now, to do that on purpose. I'm used to the acting, since there's normally someone around who prefers something different. Such as seductive," he says, leaning forward, his lips brushing my ear, "or apathetic," he pulls away, words cruel, "or sarcastic," he adds sardonically.

"So why is it that you're not like that when you're with me, then?"

There is such a long pause that, eventually, I move to leave. I set my half-full cup of tea on a nearby countertop for an Avox to retrieve later on. I turn my back on him, crossing the room. I start to step over of the threshold… but he calls for me. "Maysilee Donner."

His tone of voice is harsh, yes, and powerful; but I have never heard someone savour those two words as he does now. And, once I turn around, he gives me my response. "It's such a simple answer. I don't know how you couldn't figure it out," he says.

"It's because you love me for who I am."

~~~

*finis de capitulum duo*


	4. 3: The Capitol, Part II

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

~~~

Chapter Three: The Capitol, Part II

So fall, go on and fall apart

And fall into these arms of mine, I'll catch you

Every time you fall, go on and lose it all

Every doubt, every fear, every worry, every tear

-Fall, Clay Walker

~~~

When I wake up, the first thing I notice is a pair of eyes: dark pupils surrounded by a gray hue. The colour is calming but the wild ferocity that shows there unsettles me. I blink once and my focus zooms out on the face. A well-defined nose, olive skin, and raven black hair that's long and straight, dangling in my face and tickling my cheek. It is Rosalina.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

"No," she says, coldly, heartlessly. I am hit with a massive wave of déjà vu from the last time she said that to me in this way- yesterday morning. There's no other explanation for this... She's having another episode.

"His plans changed. He thinks I'm weak. He's going to try to kill both of us," she says confidently, as if she has not predicted both of our ultimate deaths.

"Who are you talking about, Rosalina? Is it Tyler? Haymitch?" Please don't be either of them.

"Isn't it obvious?" She frowns. "He's a monster, of course. He's not my friend. He's not my brother. He is a monster." With the amount of finality she says this with, I am not going to question the subject any longer.

"They'll miss us when we die," Rosalina says after a moment, changing the topic completely. There is a distant look in her eyes, and she sways from side to side, as if being pushed and shoved from both directions.

"Who?" I'm annoyed at the fact that she won't tell me the answers I want, but not prepared for what happens next. Automatically, her face contorts into a vicious expression and she screeches, "Our families, you idiot! Our friends! Our lovers!" She's screaming into my ear so loudly I flinch and cover my ears, closing my eyes, hoping Rosalina will just go away.

She doesn't, and goes on as if her outburst never happened. "I want to tell you a secret," she whispers. "The birds talk to me sometimes."

"What birds?"

"I think you're an idiot," she states, but without a large amount of venom backing her words. She says it almost ruefully. "I know you understand. But if you really insist… they're the birds that kill you, Maysilee Donner."

~~~

Rosalina says she knows I understand, but I don't. I really don't. I don't understand why she's been spouting facts about the future that could very well be nothing but absurd predictions, I don't understand why she blacked out right after she said my name, I don't understand who will deceive us, or why Haymitch and I were both reaped, or why my life has turned out the way it has. All I could do was heave her limp body off me and take a quick shower to gather my thoughts.

When I reenter our sleeping quarters, Rosalina sits quietly on her bed, smiling as she meditates. "Are you okay?" I ask again, hoping she won't say the dreaded "no" back at me again. But instead, she says something worse. "Yes, I'm doing fine; just woke up. I'm sorry I ended up next to your bed. I sleepwalk sometimes. Did you sleep well?"

"I… I…" I stutter. How does she not remember?

"What's the matter, Maysilee?"

"You really don't remember it?" I ask, confused.

"Remember what?" Rosalina says, equally perplexed.

"You were telling me about how we're both going to die, and you talk to the birds that kill me, and someone was going to deceive us." She doesn't seem to have any recollection, and stares at me like I'm the insane one in this room. "How do you not remember?" I continue, puzzled. Does Rosalina have schizophrenia? Multiple personality disorder mixed with amnesia?

Rosalina just shakes her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. Are you sure you got enough sleep?"

"Yes." I decide to drop it. "Whatever. It might have been a bad dream." But it's not. I never have the same dream twice, even if the dreams are just slightly different... and never two days in a row. I'll just let Rosalina's episodes go on until it comes clear to me what she really means. Who knows? Maybe she predicts the future. Alas, it doesn't seem as if my future will be an ideal one- death by muttation birds. Sounds fun, right?

~~~

"Come, come, dearies! Training starts in just a few minutes!" Augusta trills from the head of the table, standing up in her long red heels and ushering us from our seats. None of us move. Breakfast was, to tell the truth, dreadful- but the prospect of training alongside forty-four other tributes that are going to kill us? Absolutely awful.

I turn to Alder, who sits at the other end of the table drinking white liquor. "Any tips?" I ask wearily.

The man, who is apparently still angry at me from last night, purposefully ignores my question. Well, I think bitterly, at least he's not shouting at me for asking.

"Come on!" Augusta snaps, impatiently. "It creates a horrible impression when you're late."

"Just give us a moment of peace, Augusta," Rosalina says with a tone of voice that imitates mine.

"It's Gust to you." She runs a hand through her violet hair, tossing it to the side with an annoyed look in Rosalina's direction. Augusta is very touchy about her name, thinking it's too old for her. I think her name, her age, and her appearance fit her perfectly well. However, that didn't stop her from nicknaming herself Gust; and doesn't stop her from lifting up her silver spoon and staring vainly into it. "My pathetic tributes can't even get my fabulous name right!" She mutters to her reflection.

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Oh… I… uh… nothing." Augusta blushes, and then snaps her fingers twice. "Now stand up, and follow me. Or I'll have Alder take a knife to the four of you."

We do. Hesitantly, we do. Not because we are frightened by our mentor, and much less by our escort. But it is vital that we take every opportunity to utilize training to our personal benefit, so we stand and follow Augusta as if we're her abnormal-looking, mutilated shadow.

~~~

Ding!

The lift's doors open smoothly and swiftly, opening up to the most gigantic room I have ever laid eyes on. It is almost too much to bear. Yes, I have stood on a stage in front of all of Panem. Yes, I have rode a chariot around the City Circle in a provocative coal miner's jumpsuit. And, yes, I've even met Haymitch Abernathy and Alder Blind. But I don't believe there is anything that has ever intimidated me so much as this room.

The colour scheme consists of dark pigments and a large array of silvers. The walls are painted a deep gray, whist large racks of gleaming silver weapons line the walls. Dummies, coloured an off-white with large rings around fatal points of the body, seem to be scattered everywhere. A few fake trees line the camouflage and shelter stations, as well as the climbing station, where a rock wall is also present. One area that seems to focus primarily on obstacle courses has hundreds of steel bars crisscrossing the ceiling. To the right, towards the top of the room, is a balcony where men wearing purple robes mill about, sampling foods from various trays set in front of them. These are the Gamemakers, who will watch us as we train. And, to top it all off, the setting is illuminated by bright fluorescent lights, suspended by sturdy-looking cables.

"Whoa," Tyler whispers, in awe.

"Isn't it fabulous?" Augusta giggles, using the only word I wouldn't use to describe this place. "Dearies, you're going to have so much fun!" And with that, she pushes Rosalina and Tyler off the lift, and then places a hand on both Haymitch's and my back. Her long, claw-like fingernails dig into the taut fabric of my training uniform as she shoves me forward. I stumble a bit, but regain my balance quickly.

Ding! I turn as the lift rises away from sight. The image of Augusta's relieved face, with her gem-encrusted lips turned up in a relaxed smile, stays fresh in my mind- a look that means she's glad she's rid of us, at least for a little while.

I turn and jog up to Rosalina, keeping pace with her as she walks to an open space in the semi-circle the tributes who arrived before us have created. The Career districts, or the members of One, Two, and Four, stand side by side, forming a menacing line of trained killers. I note that Districts Five, Eight, and Nine are here as well, some acting quite amiable, others looking on in silence. Lowering my head, I try to make myself invisible, but it doesn't work as well as I would hope.

A man dressed in a blinding white bodysuit walks over to us, holding a stack of black-coloured paper and a tin of fasteners. He attaches a paper with the number Twelve to Tyler's back, and does the same to Rosalina. As the man pins another to the back of my training suit, I feel eyes on me, and look up.

As I stare into their taunting eyes, a variety of colours with intensities that all but match Haymitch Abernathy's, it's almost as if my future plays out in my head. I see myself ducking and blushing at every discriminating comment they throw at me. I see myself showing my weak side in the interviews, hoping Capitol citizens will sponsor me out of pity. Then I see them targeting me first in the bloodbath, stabbing me rapidly with swords and spears and knives, slashing me repeatedly with their scythes and sickles and maces, leaving me in a bloody mess until my cannon fires.

So, instead of staring at the floor, I glare right back at the Careers. They will not think of me as a frail little girl. They will think of me as defiant competition. They will think of me as- "What do you think you're doing, sweetheart?" Haymitch hisses in my ear.

"Giving them a taste of their own medicine," I reply, out of the corner of my mouth, as I attempt to stare them down.

"They'll target you first if you keep glaring at them!"

"No, they target the weak ones first." I turn to look in his direction.

"Don't be an idiot, Mays," he warns.

"Don't be overprotective, Mitch!" I've crossed my arms and he's crossed his and both of us have bewildered expressions on our faces as we realize we've just nicknamed each other. The way he calls me Mays seems inaccurate when he says it, as if it's not my name, as if I've done something I shouldn't have done. I'm sure it's the same way for him. Neither of us are pleased with the supposedly endearing names.

Fauna once told me that a giving you nickname is one of the best ways a boy can show his affection for you. "The other day, Hearth called me Faunie!" She had giggled. But now, when Haymitch calls me Mays, one of the names my friends and acquaintances have addressed me with for years, I hate it. I hate it. It's as if he's addressing my façade, and not the true Maysilee… if you can understand what I mean by this.

I hear laughing from the other side of the semi-circle and look up again. The Careers are yelling something about a "petty lover's quarrel" which makes me blush furiously. I flip them off but this only seems to make them chortle more. "Ignore them," Haymitch says softly, and I frown and do as told.

"What do you reckon we do first?" I turn to Haymitch as the Head Trainer dismisses us to go to our separate stations, but he is already on the other side of the room, heading to the location of the throwing knives. It pains me that he doesn't want us to train together, but I know it's all for the best. It's important we avoid each other, so I don't like him any more than I already do.

Ha! Who am I kidding? I've already fallen for the boy from the Seam- Haymitch and not Mitch. Should he die in the arena, would I grieve? Of course. Would I be devastated? Undoubtedly. Would I lose my sanity? Perhaps. However, it may be a good idea to avoid him for as long as possible.

Rosalina evidently thinks I'm speaking to her, and says, "Edible plants?"

I sigh dejectedly. I'm sure I'll be a failure. "Edible plants," I agree halfheartedly.

~~~

"Twenty-five out of twenty-five," the trainer exclaims, a look of surprise on his face that most likely mirrors mine. His expression slowly changes into a look of pride, while mine remains incredulous. After about thirty minutes of studying numerous plants, I came to a conclusion that I might as well see if I could identify them all. Rosalina got an eighty percent.

"You're joking," I say, grabbing the answer sheet from him. I scan it. Elderberries. Poisonous if eaten raw, though you will recover quickly if treated properly. I know this because we've used them to make candies back home, but they always have to be cooked before eating. Mint leaves. By far the easiest to distinguish, and perfectly safe to consume. "Some Seam kids chew them to keep their mind off of hunger," Fauna told me once, after hearing it from Hearth. Cashew nuts. Edible and delicious, but the shells are toxic. Nightlock. The most poisonous berry there is. It will kill you in an instant. They look like blackberries, but the insides are blood red. Yew berries and leaves. The aril surrounding the seed of the berry is delicious and we use it in our candies, also, but the seeds are toxic. The foliage is even more poisonous than the seeds, and two fatalities that have occurred in the Games were from eating the leaves (the tributes really were going to great measures to relieve their hunger, I must say). There is more on the list, and I go over all of them in my mind, remembering what I wrote on my test.

Yes, I passed. My face breaks into a grin and Rosalina hugs me gently. "Nice job, Maysilee," she says.

"You too, Rosalina."

We thank the trainer for his time and head away from the station shortly after that. Then we come to a disagreement, as I want to work on throwing knives and she is headed over to knot-tying. We eventually split up and promise to meet up at (or possibly before) lunchtime.

~~~

The trainer at knives is busy, exasperatedly trying to show an elfin boy from Six how to get into proper stance, so I head over to a rack of many different sizes and shapes of blades. Choosing one that looks reasonably dull enough to not make a fatal wound if I accidentally hurl it at someone, I stand in front of a large, circular target that is a good twenty feet away. Suddenly, I'm nervous. But can it really be that hard? If the Careers can do it, I can too. I shift into the same stance the man was showing the little boy, pull my arm back, take a deep breath in, and…

"May I be of assistance?" Someone has my arm in their tight grip. It is the trainer. He leers at me, eyes traveling up and down my body in appreciation. Instantly, I glower at him. How old is this man? Thirty, probably. Does he know me? No, he does not. Does the man have a right to look at me like I'm his next meal? Hell no!

I yank my arm away from his hot and sweaty grip, still clutching the knife, my face contorting in disgust. "You have no right to touch me!" I fume.

The man raises his eyebrows. "Whoa, calm down, sweetheart. I was just going to suggest you get a smaller knife. So you don't hurt yourself, or damage your pretty features," he drawls. Not that this knife could easily injure me- it's so dull. But the only thing he says that completely registers in my mind is the word "sweetheart." Nobody can get away with calling me that, except a certain Haymitch Abernathy.

Haymitch… where is he, anyway?

I look around the room and can't find the boy. He seems to have hidden himself well. I am completely distracted with finding him until the trainer snaps in my face. "I said, get a smaller knife." I don't move. Where is Haymitch where is Haymitch where is Haymitch?

"Get a smaller knife!" He explodes suddenly, and I am scared beyond belief that this man is going to wrench the larger knife from my grip and use it to kill me himself, despite its bluntness. Nodding frantically, I turn to the rack of knives and reach for the smallest one I can find, a number that is (thankfully) not wickedly sharp like most of the blades.

"Better," the trainer says, nodding. "Now get into stance."

I do, widening my legs, bending my knees slightly. The entire time, the trainer stares at my breasts. I cross my arms over my chest and glare at the man, saying in a clipped tone, "What next?"

"Now," he says, eyes glinting maliciously. "Let me show you how to disperse your weight. You're leaning a little to much forwards- I'll help you out." All of the sudden the man is standing behind me and he puts his hands on my hips. I squeak in shock and instinctively jump away from his hands. His hot and sweaty and absolutely revolting hands.

"Get away from me!" I screech.

"Get back here so I can show you how it's done, or else I'll kill you with that pitiful knife you're holding!" I stumble back at the vicious tone, scared to stay, scared to go, scared of this evil man who I've loathed since the first word he spoke to me.

"Excuse me, Leonardo," someone interrupts us. "That boy over there looks like he is in need of assistance." Haymitch points to Willie from District Ten, whose best attempt had been a foot in length in which the knife pitifully fell to the ground. "I think I can take over from here."

The trainer, Leonardo I assume, glares ferociously at my district partner and then says to me, in an attempted seductive tone, "See you later, sweetheart. Maybe I can get you in bed sometime." I shudder slightly. Then, caught in the moment, I fling myself into Haymitch's arms out of relief. An odd expression crosses Haymitch's face as I pull away. Besides that, he remains emotionless.

"Thank you," I say simply.

"He had no right," he says, his voice low and unnerving. His gaze chips away at me like a pickaxe chips away coal, almost as if he is dissecting me with his very eyes, peeling away my skin to see what's beneath it.

"None at all," I agree.

"No, I don't think you understand." His voice is troubled. "He called you… that."

"What?" Haymitch doesn't reply, but it slowly dawns on me what he is talking about. Sweetheart. The man, Leonardo, called me sweetheart; twice. I suppose that would inspire a little anger if you called someone that and then a person you barely knew ruined it. But is it ruined? Will he still call me by the name he has nicknamed me with? Not Mays, but sweetheart. His sweetheart, no matter how much sarcasm leaks into the endearment.

"Oh," I say, my gaze to the floor. He shrugs half-heartedly and then stands behind me and places his hands on my hips, just like the trainer did. Except this time I don't jump away. If anything, I lean into his touch, which triggers an electric feeling that washes over my body. I close my eyes in pleasure, hoping he doesn't move his hands. He doesn't, but says, softly but with amusement, "Maysilee."

I turn to him, a questioning look in my eyes, and see he is smirking slightly. "Do I have to tell you to fix your posture? You want to learn to throw a knife, do you not?"

"Oh," I repeat, pathetically. "Sorry." I straighten up and widen my stance. Instantly, Haymitch mutters unintelligibly, guiding my hips backwards slightly. My breath catches as he does this, and his hands linger on my waist as I stay in the position he has put me in: my left side facing the targets. Then he lifts both to readjust the knife in my hand so I'm gripping it differently, wrapping my fingers around the hilt, placing my index finger on the beginning of the spine.

Then his fingers clamp unyieldingly on my elbow and forearm, guiding my arm back until the knife is positioned next to my ear, at a forty-five degree angle from the ground. He lets go and puts one hand back on my waist, the other placed firmly on my abdomen. I struggle to breathe. He is so close. "Focus on the target," he whispers in my ear, and I shiver, knowing I'll never be able to focus with him touching me in this way. "When you throw, shift your weight from your back foot to the front to get momentum. Suck your stomach in. Inhale, throw, and exhale. It is as simple as that." As I tighten my abdominal muscles, I feel his hand press even harder into my stomach. I feel the callouses on his hands through the thin, taut material of my uniform- and it's very hard to distract myself from his touch.

Doing as Haymitch says, I take a deep breath in, holding it as I lean back slightly and then move quickly forwards. My arm extends and the knife flies from it, sailing through the air and landing with a loud thump. I exhale and grin wildly until I realize where the blade has landed. On the floor, eight metres away from the target I was aiming for. I hear a loud snickering from behind me, and turn, shrugging off Haymitch, to see a group of Careers watching. One of them, with eerie amber eyes and short, choppy blonde hair- Platina- comments to another, "She's fallen for him so hard she couldn't throw straight if she tried." This prompts the group to guffaw much more loudly. I flush in anger.

"Ignore them," my district partner says calmly. "Your arm ended up much too far to the left. Try again." I retrieve another small knife and return to him. This time, he stands even closer. I feel slightly dazed as I throw the next time, with not near enough precision. The knife is propelled upward and drops down again a few feet away. It's no use. There is more laughter from the Careers.

Haymitch is starting to look a little irritated, but induces me to try a few more times. Finally, he puts his hands up, frowning. "Maybe knife throwing just isn't your thing, Maysilee," he says, disappointment and exasperation tinging his voice. "Try something else. I can't help you."

I glance sadly at him. And here I was thinking that, with knives being an easily acquirable weapon in the arena, I could learn to throw them and be at least decent. Now Haymitch is giving up on me, of all people. And the Careers are still watching.

I head over to the rack, choosing the last knife that is a suitable size. I head over to the targets and get into the position the trainer (who is oddly absent) and Haymitch explained, adjusting my grip, pulling the blade back. I try to block out the steady muttering coming from behind me, from the Careers, who still haven't moved on, but it is futile attempt. "Do you think she'll make it this time, Platina?" I hear one say.

"What do you think, you imbecile?" Says the distinctive voice of the girl from One with the amber eyes.

"No, she'll miss," says the singsong voice of Siren Faith. Grunts of agreement break out at this statement, and I feel my anger boil up inside of me, ready to burst out of the body it is contained in. I take a deep breath in while looking at the target, shift my weight, and-

"Undoubtedly. And something tells me pathetic runs in the family. The way her twin sister cried at the reaping- I'm assuming that was her twin sister, they look alike- if she were here, she would die before the gong even sounded."

Somehow, I manage to whirl around as I'm throwing the knife. That's it. How dare they insult my sister? They can fire as many comments directed toward me as they want- I'll just hold the rage in without showing it- but my sister is mine to speak about, not theirs to insult freely whenever they wish. Before I know it, the knife has buried itself in Platina's hip.

It takes her a second to react, pulling the knife out and staring at it with a curious expression on her face, which slowly transforms to understanding and then hot, utter fury. Blood drips down her right leg as she slowly advances toward me, her hands out as if ready to strangle me. I realise I am defenseless, and stare at her in horror. Those amber eyes slowly grow dark and her lip curls. "Think you'd try to kill me for that, Twelve?"

I stay silent.

"Well," Platina muses, looking almost pleased. "I thought you'd like a little something in return. No hard feelings." She advances one more step and then she sweeps her leg under my feet, tripping me. I crumple to the ground and she leans down, putting her knees on my shoulders. Then, with one swift, fluid movement, she pulls her fist back and punches me in the nose.

Pain engulfs me as I hear a sharp crack. My nose is broken, blood trickling down so it coats my upper lip, eventually filling my mouth with a rusty taste I dislike. Platina leans down and says, "Watch your back in the arena. I'll always be just around the corner, waiting for your weakest moment, waiting for you to let your guard down. Then," she gazes at me like a cat eyes a mouse, "I'll pounce."

She walks away. Her retreating form, with the blood running down her hip, is the last thing I see before I black out.

~~~

I wake up, completely disoriented. My vision adjusts until a sterile room appears all around me, with bright, impeccable walls and modern sharp-cornered cabinets. Everything is doused in white. White painted walls, white countertops, white bedsheets on the bed I lay on.

Instantly, I remember. Platina. Knives. Nose. Watching and waiting and pouncing. I sit up and touch my nose gingerly, but surprisingly, there is no pain, and no blood. Putting slight pressure onto the bridge of my nose with my fingertips, there is a faint pulsating, but not the sharp throbbing that comes with a broken bone. They've fixed me up.

I slide off the bed and go over to a small mirror located on the wall. My reflection stares back at me. If I had not touched my face already, I would expect a large bruise blossoming, a distorted nose, and reddish-brown dried blood marring my unremarkable features. But it's surprising that none of these appear in front of me. I look like… myself. My hair is messy, my eyes are large, but that's okay. I never did know the extent of the Capitol's medicine, but this is truly wondrous.

I've not been staring at my reflection long when my ears pick up the muttering of two voices: one male, one female. I concentrate on the muddled noise, and realise it's coming from just outside the room. Rushing over to the ivory-coloured door, without making a sound, I press my ear up against the painted wood. "…Please," I hear the male say, almost desperately.

"No. The doctor said not to visit her until she was awake. Or else her nose might not fix itself properly," the woman says, regretfully. Her voice is very distinct and I can tell it is Rosalina almost instantly. "Just wait for her to wake up, Haymitch. Then you can apologize for leaving her alone or whatever it was you're sorry about."

Sorry? He shouldn't be sorry. I was the one who knifed Platina. I was the one who provoked her. But he lets out a dejected sigh anyway. And then, out of nowhere, Haymitch says harshly, "You don't know what it's like- to be unable to have what you desperately want."

There is a pause, and then Rosalina replies. "Yes. I do." It's so quiet I can barely hear the words, soft and gentle like a scrap of velvet against a baby's skin. I don't know what she's talking about but I know Haymitch doesn't know what to say.

"Who, then?"

"Jenthis. Jenthis Hawthorne." I hear her sob slightly at her next words. "But I'm a prostitute. No man would ever want a prostitute. No man would ever want me when they could have Hazelle. So I suppose it's good that I'll die before I'm forced to attend their wedding."

My mind is reeling. Rosalina, love Jenthis? Jenthis, who is Hearth's good friend? Hearth, who is in love with Fauna? Fauna, who is my best friend? It seems as if every person in District Twelve is connected in some way. And why did I have to find my connections to Rosalina now when I should be severing them? Why does our friendship grow stronger when I should break it away, like I need to bury these feelings for Haymitch?

"Oh." He seems unable to reply in any way other than that.

"I suppose you understand what I mean," she laughs.

He laughs, too, but it is a sad sort of chuckle that signifies that there isn't anything remotely funny about this entire topic. "No woman would ever want an actor," he agrees.

It's that comment that triggers all the anger and the confusion and the overwhelming, complicated depression. Because I want the actor and he wants the plain merchant girl and we'll never, ever, get each other. No matter how many times we voice it, no how many times we apologize, no matter how many times we'll pretend it doesn't exist, I'll still have feelings for him. And we'll still be in the 50th Hunger Games. So that's why I fling the door open and storm out, shoving past them, walking down the hallway. Because I want to get away from the truth- not that I can avoid the truth by running away.

However, even if running away did work, I don't know where to go. Ten metres away I meet an intersection and don't know which path to take. The halls are deserted of anyone except for Haymitch, Rosalina, and I, so I have no choice but to turn back around and put my hands on my hips. "Who's going to lead me out of the maze?" I ask.

They're both eying me with shocked expressions, but snap out of their stupor instantly. "Take the left with Haymitch," Rosalina walks up next to me. "I'll go inform the doctor that you're ready to train- he's tending to Platina. Your nose looks healed enough. I think lunch is almost ending, so we better hurry so we can all get something to eat." She disappears down the right hallway, swiping at her slightly teary eyes with her hands and then running them down her braided pigtails to make sure not one hair is out of place.

Haymitch walks wearily next to me down the left hallway. After an awkward one-minute silence, I steer him into an empty white-walled room and cross my arms. "Tell me, what did you want to apologize for?"

"How much of that conversation did you hear?" He asks, exasperatedly.

"Enough," I say with a small wave of my hand. "Enough that I learned that no man would ever love a prostitute and no woman would ever love an actor." A surge of panic crosses his gray eyes and I laugh lightly. "Forget it, Haymitch Abernathy. You haven't a clue what effect you can have."

"And what do you mean by that, sweetheart?" His eyebrows knit, and I'm curiously glad he is using the endearment once again, despite Leonardo the trainer's unpleasant comments. "A good effect? A bad one?"

I raise an eyebrow. "That's up to you to decide."

"I cannot decide that." He shakes his head. "I should have been there. I got frustrated. Knives aren't your thing, but I wanted them to be. They always have knives in the arena, so if you can throw a knife you'll always have a chance. But then I turned my back, and next thing I know you're unconscious with a broken, bloody nose and a bruised face and…" He fidgets with the end of his shirtsleeve for a second. "I messed that up. And with all the acting… oh, Maysilee, I mess everything up, don't I?"

I reach over and put a finger on his lips. "Shh. You really are clueless," I say, amused. I lean in and kiss his cheek, my lips lingering on his almost searing hot skin, and then slowly press my forehead to his, staring into those gray irises. Such a deep gray I could jump into them and drown in happiness, like the large puddles on the streets of District Twelve after a rain storm. Myra and I used to splash in them when we were very little. Before I knew him.

"Good effect?" He whispers. I can barely hear him, but it makes me grin when I agree, "Good effect."

"You have no idea," he says, closing his eyes briefly, while smiling back. There is a moment of silence as I examine his features. His eyelashes that frame his eyes so beautifully, that are so close they almost touch mine. A small freckle, barely visible, is on his upper eyelid. His lips that are so close- but I can't touch them with mine or else this may go too far. Much too far.

"No idea?" I prompt.

"… what effect you can have."

Smirking, I step away, even though it pains me to do so. "Come on. We better get back before Rosalina comes looking for us." He nods, but seems unable to shift from the position he stands in. "Haymitch," I roll my eyes, and grab him by the wrist, pulling him out of the room. He directs me down multiple hallways until we reach a small trap door.

"What is this?" I ask.

"Trapdoor," he says, snorting. I wait impatiently for him to continue, placing a hand on my hip. "We're in the hospital. Conveniently, it is located right next to the Training Centre. There's a tunnel that connects the two buildings, for when tributes are injured before the Games, or after them if the victor is injured."

I peer at the trapdoor, then at the empty rooms around us. "Then how come there aren't any nurses or doctors here? It looks deserted."

"They're all performing duties at the East wing. That's the main part of the building. The West wing, which we're in, is normally reserved for tributes or victors. Who knows why there's so many rooms, though. Maybe the Capitol thought they could do with plenty extra rooms in case an epidemic occurred that their medicines couldn't cure, or something."

I shrug in response, and pull open the trapdoor. Underneath is a ramp leading down into a well-lit tunnel, with steel-lined walls. It's a short distance to another ramp leading upward. We pull open the next trapdoor and enter what looks to be some sort of supply closet. Extra weapons line the walls; a huge boxed labeled "Antidotes" sits on a shelf. I suppose that's for if someone at the edible plants station devours something poisonous, but it would be more comforting for them to keep it closer to the edible plants station- after all, if you consume nightlock, you'll be dead before it even reaches your stomach. I walk over to a door that must lead into the training room itself, but Haymitch stops me.

"Before we go out there…" he breathes in, then mumbles, "Never mind. I'll never be able to put this into words." Then he leans in, forwards.

His lips are inches away, but this time, he's targeting mine with his. And I can't do this. Sure, we can flirt. But we shouldn't be doing this. We can't form a relationship days before we fight each other to the death. This is not right.

I want him, but we can't continue this. "No," I say sadly, covering his mouth with my palm. With my other hand, I grasp the handle of the door and twist it, opening it a couple inches. His eyes bore into me, so close. There is hurt in them, buried deep. I can tell what he's thinking. 'Why did she say no when she clearly wants this?' But this is wrong.

"We can't do this. We can't do this to each other, Haymitch." I stare at him sombrely, and then tear my gaze from his, flinging myself out the closet. I walk away.

~~~

I close my eyes for a second. A second. But many things can happen in a second. In a second, you can find out your mother is dead. In a second, you can be chosen in the reaping. In a second, you can have a spear thrown directly at your heart. The last example is exactly what occurs at this moment.

"WATCH OUT!" Someone screams, and I feel a small force ram into me from the side, knocking me over in a jumble of limbs and other various body parts. I hear the faint whistle of some sort of weapon fly over our heads and a wave of dizziness crashes over me. Did I almost die just now?

"Are you okay?" A little girl says, her voice shrill. It comes from right next to my ear, since her head is positioned awkwardly in the crook of my neck.

"I… I… yes," I gasp, untangling myself from my saviour. "What just happened?"

"Oh my, I am so sorry!" Another girl exclaims in horror, rushing over. "I wasn't thinking and I threw the spear without realising you'd even walked onto the range! I'm so sorry."

"It's… fine," I reply, sitting in a crouched position and trying to regain my bearings. I rub my temples and observe my companions. The one that crashed into me is very petite, with dark bronze skin and hazel eyes- her flowing, deep brown hair adding to the angelic effect. The other, the spear-thrower, is a little taller, with almost black skin and golden eyes. Her hair and skin contrast drastically, for her hair is stiff and bleached a platinum blonde, ending at her shoulders in inherent spikes. I think they are from District Eleven."What are your names?" I ask.

"I'm Hestia," the blonde replies hurriedly, as if to make up for the mistake she made just a minute ago. "Age fifteen. I'm really sorry. I mean it. I'm really-"

"Hemlock," the other interrupts, offering me a sweet smile. "Age twelve. Don't mind Hestia. She has a flair for the dramatic, and goes off on long tangents at times. We're from District Eleven, and she's dating my older brother, so it's just natural that I have to team up with her and tolerate her throughout the Games."

I note that I was correct on the guessing of their district, and I laugh at her light tone… but then I feel a pang of sadness when I realise her age. So young. She is gentle: beautiful, some would say, but fragile. Hemlock, despite her dangerous name, will not stand a chance in these Games. "Thank you for saving me just now," I offer, trying to convince myself this girl won't face her death in a matter of days.

"Oh, it's no problem," she blushes. "Didn't want someone to die before the Games even started. Hey, is your nose okay? I saw what happened with Platina."

"Oh, yes," I reply, touching my nose gingerly. The pain has gone away completely. "It's perfect. Thank you for asking."

Meanwhile, Hestia prattles on. "…if there's anything- anything- I could do for you to make up for that, I'm happy to do it. Please accept the apology, I don't want to have enemies during the Games, well, besides the Careers, since they're everyone's enemy, and I want to congratulate you on knifing Platina, it was quite impressive. …Although it is not impressive that I almost speared you, so-"

"She really elaborates, doesn't she?" I smile knowingly at Hemlock. Then I realise I haven't even introduced myself yet. "Oh, I forgot. Forgive me. I'm Maysilee."

"Yeah. I know. Maysilee Donner, age sixteen, merchant, District Twelve. You have a twin sister, are amazing at edible plants, and didn't seem to be any good at knife-throwing until you threw one into Platina's hip. You are also terribly fascinated with and/or in love with a certain Haymitch Abernathy." She stares at me with a quizzical expression on her face. "Or are you? That part is sort of unclear, since I'm not that good with all the romance stuff yet."

"How did you know all that?" I gape.

"I love to learn things about people. I know I won't make it out of the arena, but I think my observations might give me a slight advantage. Most of this morning's efforts were on Platina, and a couple other tributes, including you. This afternoon I hope to get a basic preview to all of the Careers' strengths and weaknesses."

"Are you planning on memorizing all of this information?"

She giggles. "Well, yes. But I can't help it. Momma says I have a 'photographic memory,' so I can preserve the images of people in my brain. It works with traits and information about them, too. Do you want to know about Platina?" I nod.

"Okay. Platina Cleve, age eighteen, District One, merchant. Originally she was supposed to be named 'Platinum' but her mother thought of it as a name for 'rough-housing, young homeless boys,' so it was changed. Fantastic with an axe- presumably trained at the weapon all her life- but can't hit a target with a spear. Her greatest fear is fire. I know that much."

"That's impressive for one morning," I say in praise. "Who would think such a deadly person would have a simple fear? I think you will get far with your observations."

"You really think so?" Hemlock blushes again, behind her deep bronze skin. "That's why we're at spears, by the way. Because it might give us an advantage over Platina. Well, give Hestia an advantage. I'm terrible with spears- learnt that just now- and I don't want to kill anyone in the arena."

"I don't want to kill anyone either. I'm just trying out a few in case I need to use a weapon in self-defense."

"I understand."

"...I just want you to know that I'm truly sorry and, hey, are either of you listening?" Hestia finally finishes, putting her hands on her hips.

"Of course we were, Hestia," Hemlock replies smoothly. "You were apologizing to Maysilee about throwing your spear at her and told her countless times that you would do anything for her."

Hestia nods. "That's right." She turns to me. "Really, I would do anything. I don't blame you if you don't want to talk to me ever again, because that was simply terrible, but I didn't mean it, and-"

"Hestia," I interrupt.

"Yes?"

"I have an idea for your compensation." Anything to shut her up, really, and anything to work to my benefit. "One, do you know if the cafeteria is open? And two, how about you teach me to throw a spear?"

"Oh!" She grins thoughtfully. "The cafeteria closed a while ago. They said we couldn't reenter, so just in case, I snuck a few rolls with me. Want one?"

I nod, but am confused. Her training suit is so tight… how in Panem would she disguise any sort of nourishment? So it is natural that I am slightly put off when she reaches her hand down the front of her shirt and removes two bread rolls from where her breasts would be. She laughs when I stare at her in shock and says, "Despite being fifteen, I still have a flat chest. They made me wear a breastband, anyway, so the bread didn't actually touch my skin. You can have one if it doesn't disgust you."

I shrug. Although I barely know Hestia or Hemlock, I trust them. They seem very friendly. And we are going to be in the Hunger Games days from now, eating food that isn't much worse- so why not? "I'll take one," I say. "It's food all the same."

We divide the two rolls with Hemlock, and then Hestia says, "Now, to spears. You wanted me to teach you, right?"

~~~

It turns out that I am excellent at spears. The first throw lands an unsatisfactory fifteen feet away from the target. The second time isn't much better. The third time is worse, and Hestia shakes her head, about to give up on me, when Hemlock says, "Try holding it differently."

She moves my hand into a more comfortable position, and continues, "Relax your grip. When you throw, it's not about power, it is precision." I do as told, aim, and throw. It glides seamlessly through the air and lands, quivering, in the centre of a dummy, right where the heart would be. Fake blood gushes from the "wound." Hemlock and Hestia both applaud, and the trainer, a woman with curly red hair, comes up to us.

"That was very good," she tells me. "Have you ever thrown a spear before today?" I answer her with a negation, saying it was a lucky shot. But quickly we learn that my luck is natural skill, for eight out of ten throws hit in fatal areas, the other two coming extremely close. Finally, after a short while, I decide to change stations, spotting Rosalina at climbing.

"Can we come with you?" Hemlock asks politely when I try to excuse myself from them. I agree to it immediately, and then we jog over to Rosalina, who is sitting on a low branch of an artificial oak tree.

"Hello, Maysilee!" She calls when she sees us. "Who's with you?" She jumps down from the branch, walking over to us. She's taken her raven hair out of the braided pigtails, and now it flows freely behind her back. I've always wanted my hair to be waist-length, but eventually it becomes so tangled that I just cut it off so it hits the middle of my back. I'm a bit envious of her persistence in growing it out.

"This is Hemlock and Hestia, from District Eleven." I gesture to each as I say their names. "I met them at spears. We're…" I trail off, wondering what to call them. Acquaintances? No. Hemlock saved my life- it's got to be more than just that. Allies? But we haven't even mentioned anything on those lines. So I'm thankful when Hemlock speaks for me. "Friends," she quietly offers, in that thick accent of hers.

"Friends," I agree, smiling, even though it may be dangerous to use (as we are entering the Games together). "And this is Rosalina, from my district." They exchange a few tentatives hellos. Hemlock, I observe, doesn't list off my district partner's characteristics like she did for me. Maybe it is because Rosalina doesn't trust her yet. A good move on Hemlock's part.

Here at the climbing station, there are multiple trees, a large rock wall, and, in one area, a large net with gaps you have to maneuver around. We begin with the trees. I note that Rosalina's probably snuck out to the meadow (or perhaps the forest) before, because climbing comes easily for her. I struggle a bit, but not too much, since there is a tree in front of the apothecary that Fauna has persuaded me to ascend a few times. Hestia is superior to all of us, making her way up a 20 metre high imitation of an aspen in about thirty seconds of time. Hemlock is the only one who cannot get the hang of it at all.

"Hestia works in the orchards back home. She weighs a little more than average, which means she can't stay up in the very tops of the trees for a long while, or else the branches will break under stress. That's why she picks fruits in the middle section, but she's still a very good climber," Hemlock explains. "I work in the fields, though. I'm one of the plant-tenders, so I help water them when it hasn't rained for a while, and add fertilizer when needed. Sometimes I even plant the seeds myself. If you've eaten a tomato, I probably contributed to its growth."

"What's a tomato?" I ask, feeling a bit misinformed. I probably learned about it in my first year of schooling, but I have forgotten. I paid more attention when they were talking about the maize.

"You've never had a tomato?" She asks, dumbfounded.

"Well, have you ever lit something with coal?" She shakes her head in confirmation. "Exactly. They certainly don't distribute district-made products to other districts unless they're absolutely necessary, like the tessera grain from District Nine."

"I get your point. Next lunchtime, I'll let you try a tomato. They're very good."

"I'll take your word for it."

~~~

Hestia, Hemlock, Rosalina, and I decide to split up. The two from Eleven go to fire-building. Rosalina goes to camouflage. Like Hemlock, she's taking the no weapons route. I decide to learn a simple but effective snare to catch rabbits with. The afternoon slides by somewhat peacefully, Platina (having healed and returned) glaring at me frequently but not attempting anything, Haymitch seeming to have completely disappeared.

Finally, the Head Trainer dismisses us. I catch hold of Rosalina's wrist, who in turn catches hold of Tyler's, and tow them both into a relatively empty lift, vacant except for a chattering pair from District Seven. Soon enough, the lift's clear glass doors snap closed- Haymitch must have taken another lift- and we are shooting upwards at a quick pace. Us women from District Twelve are silent, but Tyler contributes to the joyful babbling of the other two tributes, whose names are Pine and Harpin, respectively.

In almost no time at all, the lift has stopped at floor seven. Pine and Harpin wave good-bye at us kindly. I wish I wasn't meeting all of these good-natured people that I might have to kill in a matter of days, although the thought of killing anyone at all is a bit sickening.

Augusta meets us when the lift opens on our floor, and begins to ask rhetorical questions about how much we learned today and if we liked the Training Centre gymnasium and what we ate for lunch. She is just beginning to tell us about the appetizer for dinnertime (blue crab cakes, which sound utterly disgusting) when we approach Alder at the dining table. He is gazing ruefully at his overturned liquor flask which lies in a puddle of alcohol on the floor- ha, about time you got so drunk you knocked it over, I think- when he stands and looks at me with a murderous gaze. "You, Miranda," he says, pointing to me. "Get over here. The rest of you, leave."

I don't want them to leave, but Rosalina and Tyler just about run away to their rooms (so much for moral support) and Augusta makes a quick exit, muttering to herself about fixing her lipstick (although how she could even wear lipstick with her rhinestone-encrusted lips is beyond me). I turn around to peer at the lift, but Haymitch still doesn't seem to have gotten back yet, so now I am all alone with my mentor. I approach Alder slowly. "Yes?" I ask, tentatively.

He scowls. "Weren't you the one who said you didn't need any help, girl?"

"Yes, sir." I throw in the "sir" part because maybe, just maybe, it will help me get on his good side- if Alder Blind even has a good side.

"You failed at the ceremonies, Miranda, but I don't think I have to tell you that," says my mentor. I nod, and he continues. "Therefore, you do need help if you're going to get anywhere in the Games, and I'm here to strike a deal with you."

"Firstly, my name is Maysilee. Secondly, I am open to hearing whatever deal you have thought up."

"Firstly, I don't care," he mocks me, using I high-pitched voice that sounds nothing like my own. "Secondly, the deal is: if you get a training score of eight or higher, then I'll help you. I'll sober up enough to coach you and the rest of them on interviews and send you all gifts during the Games. But," he's close enough to jab me in the chest with his index finger with every word he speaks, "if you fail, Miranda, don't think I'm going to help any of you."

This means, of course, I cannot fail at my private sessions. I gulp and nod, which is followed by him pushing me away and myself falling hard on my butt. I scramble to get up and make a quick exit while he calls to an Avox in the corner, "Hey, you! The kid with the tongue cut out of his mouth! Get me some more of that vodka, fill that flask on the floor." I exit as fast as I can when I see Alder collapse and begin to retch from all of the liquor he has consumed.

~~~

I open the door to Rosalina's and my room, intent on lying on my luxurious bed and flipping through channels on the television, laughing along with my district partner at the obnoxiously flamboyant styles of the Capitol. What I really am not expecting is the sight of Haymitch Abernathy sitting at the base of my bed, head in his hands- even though he's not even supposed to be in my room in the first place, and I never saw him get off the lift. There is no trace of Rosalina, so I'm positive she's in Haymitch's and Tyler's room (she's allowed to visit Tyler since they are related, Augusta explained, to our exasperation), doing who-knows-what with her brother.

I squeak out the words, "What are you doing in here?" Haymitch lifts his head from his hands and gazes at me with a blank expression, as if calculating something about me that he doesn't want me to discern.

"I am sitting," he says, and a flicker of indignation crosses his eyes.

"Of course you're sitting," I reply, a bit annoyed. "What I want to know is why you're breaking a rule clearly set by Augusta by simply sitting in Rosalina's and my room, and how you managed to get off the lift while Alder and I were talking."

"Well," he smirks, jumping up from his spot on the bed like it has just turned to hot coals. "It's really none of your business, is it, Mays? But if you insist, I left the training gymnasium hours ago after you decided I wasn't good enough for you." The indignation shows completely now, and I stand in the doorway, still shocked at the way he is behaving.

"I never said you weren't good enough for me," I say slowly, confusedly. Is he acting this way just because I refused to kiss him back? Doesn't he know why we cannot... feel... at a time like this?

"Really, sweetheart?" Haymitch crosses the distance between us in just a few steps, facing me like a rabid animal. "From your actions, it was clear that you want nothing to do with me. Or were you just playing hard to get? Do you want me like I want you? If that's the case, Mays, all you had to do was ask." Leering, he descends upon me, and all I can do is stare wide-eyed as he presses his mouth to mine.

Conflicting emotions act upon me as he shoves me out the door and across the hall, pressing my back to the cerulean blue wall, his lips constantly moving against mine. The sensation is amazing and I feel as if every part of my body is filled with electricity, and when his teeth graze my lips I shudder in pleasure. But this is not right. Haymitch is not acting like himself, and we shouldn't be doing this, and I don't know why he is angry with me or why he is taking this so far. This is wrong, wrong, wrong, even though I feel as if I will melt to the floor in joy. How I manage to shove him off me is something that will elude me forever, but when I do work up the courage to do it, he looks like a cowering little boy and I feel like a goddess: a goddess that is angry beyond belief.

"What was that?" I yell at him. "What do you want from me? Why are you acting like this, Haymitch? I didn't do anything to you and now you're trying to make out with me like I'm… like I'm..."

His chagrined and shattered expression changes into one of superiority, and he is smirking again. "Don't tell me you didn't like it," he says in a seductive tone of voice. I want to slap the voice away, slap the grin away. And so I do. I slap Haymitch Abernathy, my rage getting the better of me.

"You know what?" I hiss. "You know what? Earlier today, you said that no woman would ever love an actor. And, Mitch…" I slap him again, on the other cheek, "You were right. I didn't like you kissing me, and I will never love you, or like you for that matter." I shove him out of my way, towards his room, yelling, "Thank you for ruining my first kiss!" And that is when I notice Rosalina and Tyler, staring at us with gaping mouths in the middle of the hallway. It just makes my ire double in intensity, to the point that I want to inflict pain upon them as well, so to quench this ire I back away into my room and slam the door as hard as I can.

I'm sobbing by the time I've locked the door and have flung myself onto my bed. To distract myself, I pick up the remote on my bedside table and turn on the television, but after flipping through multiple channels, even the ostentatious Capitol styles don't manage to cheer me up. Sighing, I click the power button once again and the screen goes black.

Instead, I decide to take a nap. I'm not tired, but sleeping can't hurt, and it will be easy the fall asleep in the comfort of the goose-feather duvet. I kick off my shoes but don't bother to change as I slip under the duvet, snuggling under its warmth, and fall into slumber.

~~~

I awake to a soft knocking on my door. It is not Augusta, who normally hits it with a sharp rap of the knuckles. Instead, it is Rosalina. "Maysilee?" She calls hesitantly, through the doorway. "It's time for dinner." I slip out of the covers and pad over to the doorway, unlocking it and twisting the knob to unveil her. She shuffles her feet and ducks her head and whispers, "I'm sorry to wake you. Augusta made me. She refuses to eat even the crab cakes without your presence."

I nod and contemplate whether or not to go to the dining table. I am hungry, having not eaten anything but part of a bread roll for lunch, but I don't think I can face Haymitch again. It's almost as if Rosalina can read my mind because she says, "Haymitch said he wouldn't be there. I don't know where he's off to now, but Augusta let him go."

I smile, and open the door wider and pull Rosalina into a hug. It surprises her a bit, but she returns the embrace after a moment. "I don't think he meant any of that," she mumbles to me, a few seconds later, and I know exactly what she's talking about, and I know she is correct.

"He didn't," I pull away, looking into her gray eyes. "It is the fact that he decided to hide behind that façade that is unforgivable. Haymitch could have told me that he was hurt from the events earlier today, but instead, he acted."

She thankfully does not question the events following up to his personality change. It would be very hard for me answer. Instead, she says, "Did you mean what you said?"

"No. That was spurred on by my anger. I did enjoy that kiss, and I do… like him." She doesn't mention the fact that I don't say love, because I don't know if I love him, not just yet- and I shouldn't love him anyway.

"Does he know that he can be himself, and that he does not have to act?" I shake my head, and she sighs, grabbing me by the wrist and towing me down the hallway. But before we enter the room where we shall dine, she stops, and puts a hand on my shoulder. "Mays, I think I know why you were reaped."

"Why?" What does she mean? Did they rig the reaping so my name was the only one that could have been drawn? Or does she mean…

"Fate. Someone, in a place far away, sent you here to help Haymitch Abernathy realise that he can be himself, and that he doesn't have to act around other people." She smiles at me. "That is why you have to forgive him, so you can help him. Now, come on, before Augusta yells at us for being late to dinner- which she will even if we enter the dining room at this current point of time."

As she pulls me along, I stare at her in pleasant surprise and admiration. Who knew Rosalina Dark was so wise?

~~~

"I can't find him," I tell Rosalina later that night, three hours after a hearty dinner of nothing but crab cakes (for myself, at least- who knew they were so delicious?). "I've searched everywhere in the flat- even took the lift down to the training room. I have a feeling he's going to do something terrible."

She looks up at me from her position, sprawled out on the goose-feather duvet of her own bed. Rosalina thinks for a moment, before replying, "Have you been to the roof yet? It's quite possible that he is up there. How he could manage to stay up there for five hours straight eludes me, but it seems like something Haymitch would do."

"There's a roof?" I say, incredulously.

"Yes. You know, when you step off the lift, there is a door to the left? The one with the bronze doorknob? That's the entrance to the roof."

I nod and exit the room. "Thanks," I call over my shoulder, while running down the hallway and into the dining room, taking a sharp right in the direction of the lift. On my right is a cherrywood doorway, with a bronze doorknob, just as Rosalina said there would be. I open it, and behind the door is a staircase. I mount the steps to find another door, which I open as well.

As I step across the threshold, I am hit with a strong gust of cold wind, which shocks me a bit, for I haven't been outside for what seems like ages, and I never thought that summertime could bring cold winds. I suppose it's different here in the Capitol. Closing the door softly behind me, I examine what must be the roof. It is covered in a large assortment of flowers and plants, illuminated by the light of a gibbous moon and the more colourful, flashing lights of the Capitol. I am struck by the beauty of it and walk over to a bed of impatiens, plucking one and twirling it around my fingers, touching its soft, velvety petals.

For a moment, I forget what I've come here for. And then the thought of Haymitch and his acting floods back to me, and I peer around the roof, looking for said person. He is nowhere in sight- but of course, there are many areas of this roof that aren't in my sight. I just have to search for them.

I devise a simple plan in which I will work from the inside, out. I stride to my left a little ways, and then take an abrupt right, picking my way through the colocasias and canna indica plants. After making a full circle, back to the place I started out, I have not seen Haymitch. And, oh my, the roof is big! Which is predictable, as our flat, floor twelve, is very large; and the roof must have a surface area big enough to cover it; so no doubt it may take a while to find Haymitch in the garden's depths. Again, I circle around, but it takes double as long because the circumference is wider- and still, I have no such luck.

Now, I ditch my plan. It's actually pretty stupid, and the crimson and yellow cluster of pansies to my right are laughing at me. Throwing an annoyed glance at the flowers, I propose a search along the edge of the roof, and carry it out. I am granted with success! for after about five minutes of walking three life-saving feet away from the open air, I come across him, his back turned towards me as his feet dangle off the edge of the roof. Haymitch stares at something far below, head ducked, and he doesn't notice me until I'm wrapping my arms around him from behind and murmuring, "Actors don't always act."

He turns around and stares into my eyes. The desolation that shows in his gray irises changes in an instant, showing a spiteful laughter. "Oh, hey, Mays. Came back for more?"

I glare at him, but do not remove my arms. "Shut up, Mitch," I retaliate, snapping my fingers in front of his face, which is inches from mine. But quickly afterwards, my voice lowers to a whisper. "I said, actors don't always act."

The façade slips for a moment, but is rebuilt quickly, his smirk growing malicious. "What if they want to, sweetheart?" He leans forward. "What if I want to? Fuck you, I mean."

Well, might as well just play along, if only for a moment. I scoot so my feet are dangling off the edge of the roof as well, still in the one-sided embrace, and press my forehead to his. Smiling seductively at his falsely lustful expression, I say, "I'd love to."And then, after a long pause in which he looks shocked, I chuckle, pulling away, while unwrapping my arms. "Help you. I'd love to help you, Haymitch Abernathy. Actors don't always act, and you don't have to either."

His entire wall slips and I see him again, the lonely, depressed boy who wants something he can't have. And this time, the wall isn't rebuilt again. I have managed to get past the impossible. Letting myself sport a small smile, I swing my legs and look over the edge. It is very far down. Very far. Gulping, I turn away to face Haymitch, but he is currently staring intently down at the street below, as I was moments before.

"Did you know, if you dropped a stone a bit bigger than the size of your thumbnail from up here, and it hit someone in the head down below, they would die?" He tells me, minutes later, seemingly out of nowhere.

I screw up my face in a worried expression. "No, I didn't know that. Are you thinking of doing that or something?"

"Nah," he shakes his head. "It wouldn't work."

"And why ever not?"

"Well," he stands up, "let me show you."

Time seems to slow as Haymitch turns around and leans backward. A single word- "No!"- escapes my lips as he falls off the edge of the roof, into the nighttime air, towards the gleaming lights that seem so very far below. There is a placid look on his face as he falls, and I have to turn away, because Haymitch Abernathy has just committed suicide and what will I say to Rosalina? Tyler? Augusta? Alder? The Gamemakers? President Snow? His brother and his mother?

There is a faint zap from behind me, but I pay no notice to it, for my mind is reeling. I stare wide-eyed at a massive gunnera plant as I go over the suicide in my mind. It was so quick. I didn't get any time to say goodbye, or stop him. And now Haymitch is dead, the boy who was my first kiss, who was my first… (well, I am unsure, for crush is not the right word, being much too childish, but love is more strong than I would like to call it). Now he is gone, gone, gone.

The tears begin to race down my cheeks as my mind fully processes what has just occurred. I am about to seriously injure the gunnera plant out of frustrated sadness when someone says, from behind me, "Did you really think I would die that quickly?"

Jumping in surprise, I turn and see a sight I never thought I'd see again. Haymitch Abernathy. My mind only just perceives this before I'm throwing my arms around him and weeping into his shoulder. And then I'm slapping him, for the third time tonight. And hugging him again. "Why did you do that?" I sob. "Why did you scare me like that?"

"I never thought you would react this way," he says, genuinely shocked himself, as he unwraps himself from me and leads me back to the edge of the roof. "I thought you'd understand when I willingly fell like that. There's a force field a little ways down. It zaps you pretty good, hurts like hell, but won't kill you or anything- it just propels you right back up onto the roof. So if you threw a pebble down, it would just come right back at you."

I swipe at the tears on my face, glaring at him with a calculating eye. "So you're really not just a ghost who is playing a trick on me? So you really did not just commit suicide?"

Haymitch does not roll his eyes, like I expect him to. "Really. I am a real person. I just hugged you, for Panem's sake. How about you jump off and see that you survive yourself?"

Turning to survey the pavement far below, I glare at it harshly and I shake my head. I am not going to do that, because what if the force field breaks, or what if it doesn't work for me, or… I cannot risk it. I've always hated heights, and while not harbouring a phobia for them, I would like to just stay a safe distance away and ignore the presence that is "height." I'm already pushing my limit as I sit down and dangle my feet off the roof. I'm already pushing my limit believing that there is a force field down there. I cannot push my limits to their breaking point, because then I will break.

"I'm sorry."

His words come out of nowhere, and I fix him with an incredulous gaze, followed up by a wave of gratitude. Never did I expect him to give an outright apology for kissing me back in the hallway outside our bedrooms. Sure, I did expect an evasive, regretful statement, but nothing so blunt. It is clear that he does not mean falling off of the edge of the roof, though, for his words are rueful and meaningful. "You should be," I say, which is not untrue. "For I did nothing that should cause you to act as you did, and therefore, your actions will not be easy to forgive."

My partner's expression crumples for a moment, before I continue. "However, I am intent on forgiving you, because I do like you, Haymitch; very much so. Therefore, if you are to be forgiven, I request that you take my words to heart."

"And what are those words, sweetheart?"

"Actors do not have to act." He fixes me with a blank stare. "Oh, come on, Haymitch," I groan, "it is as if you want your life to be a television show. You spend your time acting when the cameras aren't rolling. Yes, it is true you have to act for the cameras, and there are many people in Panem who control those cameras. You have to act for the audience, and there are many more people in the audience than there are controlling the cameras. But behind the scenes, you can be yourself. You have to learn that."

"What are you?" He asks. "You are not behind the cameras, nor are you the audience. So what are you, then- my supervisor? The writer of my script?"

"No," I shake my head, smiling. "Your supervisor is yet to be determined. You are the writer of your own script. I am nothing but your friend."

He silently considers my musings for a time, raking his hands through his hair, looking up at the night sky that has no stars (as far as I am concerned). And then, when I am pondering the act of standing and returning to our flat, lest not to die of hypothermia from this dreadfully cold wind, he speaks. "I do not think of you as just my friend, Maysilee. Instead, I think of you as my force field. If I fall to far, you are there to propel me upwards again to reach my highest potential. Alas, it may just be my fatal flaw to fall further each time I am propelled higher, so you must always be there."

"What if the Games take me away?" I whisper.

Haymitch stares at the ground, hundreds of metres below us. And then he looks up at me, his eyes piercing, his stare intense.

"Then I will fall until I reach my death."

~~~

*finis de capitulum tres*


	5. 4: The Capitol, Part III

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

~~~

Chapter Four: The Capitol, Part III

Learning to fly

But I ain't got wings

Coming down

Is the hardest thing

-Learning To Fly, Tom Petty & The Heartbreakers

~~~

"Then I will fall until I reach my death." The words form a repetitive melody in my mind. "Then I will fall, fall, fall. Fall until I reach my death." I ponder them as I descend the stairs, leaving Haymitch to his temporary home on the roof. "I will fall." I contemplate them as I ignore Rosalina's questions. "Until I reach." I consider them as I wash my face until the skin is rubbed raw. "My death." I pick up my mockingjay pin, which I placed on my bedside table for safekeeping earlier, and stare at it closely. "Then I will fall until I reach my death."

When will you reach your death, Haymitch Abernathy? Will it be four days from now? Will it be fourteen? Will you make it out of these Games, and will you live to reach eighty years? Don't you know that if you live, then I will die? Don't you realise that if you live and I die, then you will fall until you reach your death?

His words tonight have told me that his death is inevitable. He will die if he wins, he will die if he loses.

I suppose it is ironic that this thought scares me to death.

As I stare at the pin, I think of the man who gave it to me. Father, I miss you dearly. I think of my sister. Myra, I miss you more than you will ever know. I'm sure she misses me too, because I am her twin, and I sense things about her that she cannot sense herself. Like, for example, she always swears her favourite candy is peanut-butter truffles, but I believe it would be lemon drops (if she bothered to try them). Myra sampled a lemon wedge when we were about two (her earliest memory), and she's avoided them ever since, claiming they are "too sour to handle." She doesn't realise the lemon drops are actually very sweet. I used to think, "oh well, more for me." Now I wonder who's going to eat them all. And the dark chocolate truffles, my favourites, are going to sell so much more slowly now without me to spend all my allowance money on them.

What a depressing thought.

My reflection is interrupted by Rosalina, who is looming over me. She is dressed in a see-through nightgown, but isn't too modest about it. I suppose with her past, she's a bit more comfortable with people seeing her body than she would be… without her past.

Also a depressing thought.

"Quit it," she says condescendingly, plucking the golden pin from my hand and setting it back on the bedside table.

"Quit what?"

"Ignoring me, of course!" She flings herself down on my bed dramatically, her gray eyes bright with curiosity. Sighing, I lie back, situating myself parallel to Rosalina. We gaze at the cream-coloured ceiling simultaneously, her long, black hair touching my shorter (but still lengthy) blonde locks.

"What do you want to know?" I ask.

"Well, I'm assuming you found Haymitch," she faces me, smirking, "because there are tear tracks on your face and you have been deep in thought these past ten minutes or so. I don't think he hurt you, though, because you aren't currently sobbing into my shoulder. So cough it up, Mays… I can call you Mays, correct?"

"Yes- everyone back home does," I say absently, sitting up and standing. I need to move, in some way… and it would be nice to get out of my tunic and leggings. They might have been clean when I returned to the flat and changed out of my training uniform, but I have been sitting on the edge of a roof covered in dirt, plants, and other natural apparatus, and the tunic and leggings are now unacceptable items of clothing to sleep in. "…And you are correct, I found him."

I open a small drawer in the bottom area of our shared wardrobe, and choose a nightgown similar to Rosalina's, albeit the fabric and cut being a bit more modest. Rosalina pesters me once again to tell her what happened, and I let out a breath, turning my back to her. "Well," I begin, pulling the tunic up over my head, "First of all, he threw himself off the roof."

"What?" The horror in her voice makes me crack up, and I spin around to gauge her expression, in nothing but my breastband. Her face is contorted, her nose wrinkled, her eyes wide, and her mouth gaping in shock. "Are you telling me he's dead, Maysilee?"

"No!" I exclaim, laughing slightly as I struggle to get the nightgown over my head. "I said he threw himself off the roof. I thought he was dead, too, which was why I started crying. Anyway, turns out there's some sort of force field that propelled him back up. The Capitol doesn't want any of their precious tributes to die before the Games start, of course," I roll my eyes.

"Oh… okay…" Rosalina tries desperately to recover, but her voice is shaking. "I just thought… if he was dead… what in Panem was he thinking?"

I cock my head at her, taking off my leggings and throwing them on the floor. "Nobody knows what Haymitch thinks. That's just who he is." Now, after dressing, I begin to pace. The room is large, but the wardrobe and our beds serve as obstacles, which makes the pacing much more interesting. "After he threw himself off the roof, though, he told me some stuff that doesn't make much sense."

"What'd he say?"

"We were talking about façades… and acting… and then he pretty much told me that he couldn't live without me." My hands spring to my temples and I rub them. A major headache is beginning to set in.

Surprisingly, Rosalina's expressions shows no shock. She mutters something to herself that is indistinguishable, and then gets up, catching me by the hand tugging me back to the bed. "How do you feel about that?" She asks in a motherly tone. It makes me miss having a mother. My mother died when I was four. Twelve years I lived without any worthwhile maternal advice, and now I seem to have found someone to temporarily replace her, possibly only a few days before I reach my death.

My life is turning out to be absolutely ridiculous.

"It's so confusing," I mumble. "And I'm so frightened, Rosalina. I like him… I can't determine how much, but a lot… and I'm beginning to think he feels the same way, if not more. But if we both… like each other… then who knows what will happen to us if the other dies? Haymitch acted like a child today. He tried to get what he wanted, even though he knows he'll hurt himself if he has it."

"What does he want?" Her voice is soothing.

"Today, he wanted to… kiss me," I murmur. "He already has a girl, but he doesn't like her much- hates her, really. He wants me to... be his."

"Do you want that?"

All of the sudden, I am so tired. Fatigue washes over me, and I slump onto the bed, trying to pull the covers over my bare legs. "Yes- but I can't," I say dejectedly, looking into her gray eyes. The depth and sadness to them is considerable, and she averts them silently, busying herself with tucking me into bed. She is so much like my mother… but she is not my mother. Rosalina is my friend, and she's so nice to me. She is doing something nice for me. It is wondrous. I am grateful. But I don't feel like I deserve it.

"Mays," her voice is quiet, but I can hear it as if she is talking loudly, "I think you are strong. I think you can handle this. I believe you can handle this. It will be hard, but it would be harder if you loved him."

Sleep is pulling me down. I welcome it, although before I drift off, I have to get the words out. "But, Rosalina," I whisper, "I think I do love him."

The last thing I see is her face. Her mouth is a grim line; her eyebrows are knitted; her eyes puddles of melancholy rain water. "I'm sorry, Maysilee," she whispers back, and I drift into the realm of dreams.

~~~

I wake up to her face, yet again, but this time I do not think she is having an episode. Her expression is not wild; in fact, it is calm and collected. The only thing that strikes me odd is how she is staring at my forehead, but at the same time, does not seem to be looking at my forehead… more like an entirely different universe, based on the wonder that shines in her eyes. "Rosalina?" I ask, hesitantly. "Are you your normal self?"

"No," she says, albeit quietly. Well, I think, there goes that.

"What is it that you have to inform me about this morning?"

She chews her lip, and then leans in. "The birds tell me secrets," she replies. "They tell me that you love him."

I do not know what to say to this, but the pause in conversation does not stop her from going on. "The birds don't believe in love, or friendship. They're just a figment of imagination come to life, come to destroy us." Rosalina begins to rock back and forth, still staring curiously at my forehead.

"They are a figment of whose imagination?"

Her eyes narrow, and she smirks evilly, her temperament changing completely. "Whose imagination?" She mocks. "Well, obviously not yours, Maysilee Donner."

Before I have to time to be taken aback, she collapses on top of me.

~~~

The second day of training goes much like the first… except there are no knives, broken noses, kisses on the cheek, alliance-forming, or lunch-skipping. Okay, I admit, the second day of training doesn't go like the first did. However, I continue to show my expertise in edible plants and spear-throwing; Hestia rambles on about her past late-night excursions with Hemlock's brother, Haze, who is (was?) her boyfriend; Rosalina is kind and focused on every survival skill she takes on; and Hemlock tells me a bit about each tribute.

We are at knot-tying when I begin to question her on what she knows about the others. "Tell me about Siren," I say, on a whim. "From Four."

"Ooh!" Hemlock giggles. "Siren Faith, District Four, age eighteen? Yes?" I nod, although there is no other Siren in the training room. "Well… she was a volunteer, as you know, and as you might not know, she talks a lot. I know plenty about her. She was conversing with Naiada yesterday about relatives, and I heard she only has a mother and a sister, whose name is Delphin. She lives with both of them, and Delphin's husband, whose surname I couldn't quite catch- I think it was Overthere." Hemlock's eyes glint. "And Siren told Naiada that Delphin is going to have a baby boy in early January! Isn't that wonderful? They're going to name the baby- forgive me if I am wrong- Finnick, and Siren went on an on about how beautiful he was going to be, since Delphin is the prettiest woman in the district."

I take this all in. "Any more information?"

"Oh, yes," she nods. "There's lots more. Siren's good with knives- machetes in particular- but can't throw them. Actually, she has terrible coordination when it comes to long-range weapons. She doesn't show it, but I sort of figured she was bad, because she always avoids spears and bows and arrows… and then she went ahead and told Venom yesterday."

"Venom?"

"One of the girls from Two. Petite, black hair… that's Venom. Anyway, I think telling Venom was a terrible decision on Siren's part. Venom isn't very nice and now that she knows Siren's weakness, she might go ahead and exploit it in the arena. Not right away, since she'll probably be a pretty important asset for the Careers at the beginning. I mean, her hair? It's so pretty!" Yes, I have seen her hair. It is sleek and wavy; coloured a golden-streaked sienna. Her eyes are turquoise. If Siren Faith is less beautiful than her sister, Delphin, then I can't stand to imagine how beautiful her sister is… or how beautiful Delphin's child will be, when he is born.

Before I can agree, Hemlock leans in, grabbing the thin length of rope in my hands and shoving it aside. Her voice lowers to a whisper as she stares at me excitedly. "I also heard something really interesting yesterday," she tells me gleefully. "I don't like gossip much (okay, yes I do, but not pointless gossip), but Cleat told Quarren that Siren is his ex-girlfriend… think we could use that against the two of them somehow? Cleat sounded really sad about it. I guess she dumped him after she got all the sex she wanted."

"Hemlock!" I exclaim, hitting her on the nose. "Don't talk about that!"

"Talk about what?" Hemlock says innocently, while batting her long, dark eyelashes and giving me back my piece of rope. I perform a sloppy-looking knot as she continues to tell me about Siren. "Anyway, I got some other information out of her chattering." How much information can you store in that brain of yours, Hemlock? "You know how she's from District Four?" She begins to snicker. "She's afraid of water!"

"No way!"

"Yes, way! She and Platina must really get along," Hemlock laughs, piling on the sarcasm. "You know, Platina's phobia of fire, Siren's phobia of water… it's so funny! And they're supposed to be Careers, you know? I used to think all Careers were indestructible, but not any more. I'm starting to realise that they might be weaker than the rest of us, but they don't show it. I couldn't determine that the other years because I wasn't training with them, or observing them spout out gossip like it's carbon dioxide." She shakes her head. "Well, there you go. That's Siren."

I nod, thanking her, and then drop my piece of rope, pushing myself up from my crouched position. "I'm done with knot-tying. Want to go join Rosalina and Hestia?"

"Sure."

We proceed to set off across the room, heading towards the camouflage station.

~~~

Thump. Thump. Thump. I watch as Haymitch throws knife after knife. They hit the flimsy dummies with varying amounts of success. Not all are direct shots to fatal points of the body, but at least they all come in contact with the false man. Haymitch will be able to easily survive the arena, I think, with the knowledge of how to throw knives as he does now.

I approach him from behind. Sometimes I think that I like him better when he isn't facing me. I'm not exactly outgoing; talking to people is not something I can always handle, and talking to him is all but nerve-wracking. Sometimes I feel like he can scope out my every emotion, and even less it seems he is clueless to what I am feeling, acting on impulse and living up to the human that he is. I cannot expect anything that comes out of Haymitch's mouth. Around him, it takes work to say what I want to say. And although facing him is worth it, it is also frightening.

It's nice to just admire him from behind, even if only for a minute or two.

I do not speak until he has run out of projectiles. "Where did you learn to throw so well, Haymitch?"

He doesn't seem to be startled. Has he seen me approach? I wonder. How would that be possible? Oh, why do I question his motives so? But before I can chide myself for thinking such meaningless questions, he replies, "I could say the same to you, Maysilee."

I laugh, waving his comment off with a dismissive hand. "I hadn't touched a spear in my life before yesterday. I suppose that Hestia throwing one at me might have knocked some spear-throwing skills into my otherwise useless body."

"Your body is not useless, sweetheart," he reprimands. Then he realises exactly what he's just said and a blush travels up his neck. Haymitch quickly covers his previous words with a question. "Would you believe me if I told you it comes naturally to me, too?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not it does come natural to you, or if you're just saying so," I joke, smiling. He chuckles in return and walks over to the knife rack, tugging me along. For a moment, I worry that we might cross paths with Leonardo (the creepy trainer who seemed keen to molest me), but we do not. I heave a sight of relief when I locate the said man at the sword-fighting station. I won't be going anywhere near there soon. It is convenient.

"To answer your question," Haymitch says, "I do have some background knowledge. Not on throwing, but I used to do work around the house that required knives, so I'm familiar with them. Plus," his voice lowers even more, "I've cleaned more than a few rabbits in my time. Guess being from the Seam does have some advantages, right?"

If I were, say, Darla Spinsky (the carpenter's mean-spirited daughter), then I would probably wrinkle my nose in disgust when he mentioned the cleaning of rabbits. And yes, I do admit the thought of removing a dead animal's innards is extremely unpleasant. But I am going to be in the Games, and I will most likely have to clean a few kills myself… and it wouldn't be very polite to react in such a way at the mention of the Seam folk.

Seam folk. What am I getting at? There shouldn't be Seam folk, and there shouldn't be a merchant class either. Back home, we should be equal; we should all be referred as the people of District Twelve. But, by human nature, we automatically divide ourselves further than deemed necessary. We say we despise the Capitol for splitting us into districts and taking over Panem, but that is nonsense! We are doing the same thing back in District Twelve, and presumably every other district. I am doing it now. As that old saying goes… the pot [District folk] is calling the kettle [the Capitol] black.

A silence has fallen between us, and I realise Haymitch is waiting for an answer. Alas, I do not have one. But agreeing is a better option than saying nothing, so I mutter a soft "yes."

Haymitch has chosen a large array of knives, stuffing them up his sleeves and into his boots. We walk back to a different dummy than he was using previously, but the figure itself is nearly identical to the other one. Selecting a knife with a pearl-encrusted handle, Haymitch pulls back and shifts forward, releasing the knife while practicing perfect form. The pearl knife sails through the air, and sticks firmly in the dummy's shoulder. Not bad.

"So," I say quietly. "About last night…"

He sucks in a breath of air, through clenched teeth. "Yeah. About that, sweetheart- I'd rather we not talk about it. Maybe we should just… forget the entire situation occurred?"

I stare at him in enraged shock. "W-why?"

The next number is made entirely of a reddish-brown-coloured wood. It looks as if it cannot cut through anything, for it is made of wood- however, the blade is sharpened to a deadly point. Thump. The blade pierces the dummy's neck. Fake blood coats the white figure of a man, and I have to look away. What if that's one of us in three days? What if that will be our blood, our neck, the knife we took? It makes me shudder.

"Maysilee, not that I don't like you or anything…" he huffs loudly, flinging his hands in the air. In his left hand, he now holds a large, serrated knife. I fear it will slip out of his grasp and then, how inconvenient, the Gamemakers will have to find someone else to replace the second male tribute from District Twelve. Wouldn't want that! "I just don't want to hurt you, or hurt myself, okay? I was an idiot yesterday. I normally think before I speak, but I was acting irrationally. I shouldn't have said what I-"

"So I'm not your force field," I interrupt, my voice laced with hurt.

"Of course you are! I just… I just… can't sort any of this out on my own. I can't admit things that aren't true! I mean- if they are true! Even though they-" he cuts himself off, throwing the serrated knife in the dummy's general direction. It bounces off its foot. "I don't want you to die, Maysilee Donner. If you die, I don't know if I can... can..."

He's shaking hard and beginning to hyperventilate. It's not until he grabs onto my arm for support that I realise he's having some sort of panic attack. Luckily, I know how to handle this. Fauna, my best friend, was always drilling medical-related statistics and scenarios in my head… and although she makes a better nurse than Myra and I, her words have taught me more than enough. "Get them in a quiet room," she said. "Speak to them soothingly, let them work it out on their own. Don't leave them alone or tell them to stop panicking, because that might make it worse. If they aren't getting better in five minutes or so, they might need medical attention." Well, there may not be a quiet room at my disposal, but there is a quiet corner.

I throw his arm around my shoulders and let him lean on me. He is breathing so fast and heavily that I'm sure he's beginning to feel very lightheaded. I am frightened by the terror in his eyes, but I shove the fear down and practically drag him away from the knife station, in the direction of the corner. When we finally get there, I instruct him to sit, back leaned up against the wall. Haymitch consents and I sit in front of him, cross-legged.

"Haymitch," I whisper. "It's a panic attack. It's not real. It's not real."

He does not seem to be able to say anything, but he gives a small nod of his head to show he has heard me and I am correct.

"You need to breathe," I continue. "Breathe. Can you breathe with me?" He gives me another small nod of the head, and I begin a breathing exercise that Fauna taught words come to mind clearly. "Inhale for five seconds. Hold for five seconds. Exhale for five seconds. Repeat. I call this the five-second rule, of course." I follow her guidelines, making full eye contact with Haymitch as we breathe together, until the panic is toned down.

When I'm sure he can breathe normally on his own, and the shaking is less considerable, I ask him, gently: "What were you experiencing?"

"You were…" he whispers, "You were my father, that day. It was him, but then it was… you."

He isn't making any sense whatsoever. "How did that spur your panic?"

"My father is… dead. He… drank to much. Went unconscious... drowned... when I was six."

I let his words sink in, the horror of them hitting me almost instantly. My expression crumples as I imagine a man, face-first in a bowl of white liquor. I try give Haymitch a half-smile that shows sympathy and reassurance, but I fail drastically. "It's all in the past now, Haymitch. I am not going to start drinking anytime soon, and I'm not going to… I'm not going to…" My voice trails off.

"Die?" He asks sardonically. "Of course you're not going to die, sweetheart. We're going into the Amity Games and the goal is to make as many friends as possible until the time's up. Why in Panem would we kill each other off? Why in Panem would you die?"

I ignore this pointedly, and take up the nurse-like persona yet again. "Do you experience panic attacks a lot?"

"Sometimes," he says quietly. "Not often. I used to have them about once a month when I was younger… after my father died… and we spent years saving for me to go to the doctor. When I was nine, we finally had enough, and we visited him. He said I had panic disorder, which I had already assumed. But I wanted to prove him wrong." Nobody likes the actual doctor of District Twelve. He was assigned to his position by the Capitol and although he may be on the less eccentric side of the Capitolian spectrum, he is still considered an anomaly back in the district. Most people find it quicker and less expensive to go to Fauna's parents' apothecary, but sometimes those from the Seam are turned down. It makes me dislike Fauna's parents, as kind as they have been to me. They are simply adding on the the discrimination in Twelve.

Meanwhile, Haymitch is continuing. "I did prove him wrong. I've learned to control the attacks, but…"

"…It's all too much," I finish for him. "The Games, the thought of death, the acting, the everything."

"Precisely."

"Well," I say, helping him to his feet. The shaking is absent, the hyperventilating minutes in the past, and we are ready to train again. "I don't think you need any medical attention, since you've experienced a panic attack before, and you seem to have recovered fairly quickly. Consider yourself good to go, but don't overexert yourself, Haymitch."

"I can take care of myself, thank you very much," Haymitch says, in a mock indignant fashion. "And when did you become 'nurse,' anyway?"

I laugh, towing him back to the knife station. "I never became 'nurse'… it's just Fauna's rantings finally having a beneficial purpose. I suppose they rubbed off on me, and I have a decent memory. Thankfully, decent memory is wonderful for one who is going into the Hunger Games… and probably the Amity Games as well, since you probably want to remember your friends' names." He chuckles at my reference, and I push him in the direction of the knife rack. "Now, Haymitch, I expect you to act like a good little boy and kick some fake men's asses for me while I go find Rosalina."

"Panem forbid I become naughty in a few moments' time!" He exclaims. "Because we all know I am currently a naïve young man who believes that killing dummies is an entirely innocent practice, and I will be forever guilty if I somehow defy Miss Maysilee's orders."

"Oh, shut up," I roll my eyes.

"What did I do, sweetheart?"

I don't answer him, because I am already sprinting in the other direction. If I cared to look back, I would see him smirking, and then I would watch his expression collapse, leaving a boy who is experiencing heartache, weariness, and an abundance of other extreme problems that come with being metaphorically torn to pieces. If I cared to look back, I would watch him stare at me for ages until he turned away, taking his emotions out on the dummies. But I don't look back, and I am completely oblivious to the mask he has constructed, just for me. I don't look back, and I don't realise that he is still an actor: now and for the rest of his life.

~~~

Rosalina is erecting a shelter with Tyler. I feel like I haven't seen Tyler in ages, although I listen to his constant chatter every night at the dinner table. It is probably from lack of face-to-face conversations (not that we've exactly had any at all) and the way he has been spending his time here in the Training Centre: hand-to-hand combat. It is a skill I haven't thought of taking up, but I decide it might be worth a shot later.

"I like it, Rosalina. Let's live here!" Tyler chirps as he crawls into the small lean-to. It is made in such away that it makes contact with a fake tree, but is made of actual dead branches. They are tied together with twine to create a sort of natural plank that leans diagonally against the tree. The two siblings have disguised it by piling up leaves and other shrubbery on top of the plank, as well as the sides, leaving only a small space to crawl through. If it was built during the Games, then it would provide a great shelter from wind, rain, snow, or any other weather conditions.

"Tyler," Rosalina giggles, climbing in after him. "We can't just hole up in the Training Centre and… oh, hey, Mays!" She pops her head out of the opening, smiling at me.

"Hey, Rosalina!" I smile, "…and Tyler, of course," I add on as an afterthought.

"Come on inside the lean-to with us!" Tyler says invitingly, poking his head out from the hole in the side of the shelter as well. "There's plenty of room."

"Actually, there's not," Rosalina admits. "But the more the merrier… assuming you're not claustrophobic."

"Don't mind if I do," I say, acting as if I am some sort of princess with my nose upturned in mock superiority. I'm in a moderately good mood today- jokes and imitations seem to be the only things willing to tumble out of my mouth. I march over to the shelter and crouch, trying to successfully climb through the shrubbery on the side. It is not easy, as there is only a minuscule amount of space left. Rosalina and Tyler squeeze to the side as much as possible to give me room, but I still manage to flail around a bit to much. It's not long before my head brushes the branch-plank ever slightly and I succeed to destroy all of their hard work, causing the whole thing come crashing down on top of us.

"Whoops," I mutter as I am trapped underneath the branch-plank. Rosalina and Tyler, also underneath, glare at me for a moment. I'm starting to worry they are actually angry when Tyler bursts out laughing. Rosalina's giggling follows soon after, and by the time I remove the branch-plank, they are clutching their sides in glee, gasping for breath.

"Maysilee, you'll surely kill us with your clumsiness one day!" Tyler chokes out, tears of mirth pouring from his gray eyes.

"All I did was accidentally hit the top of the shelter! Don't laugh!" I pretend to berate them, but I'm beginning to crack a grin myself while I brush shrubbery and leaves out of my hair with my hands.

"Can't… help it…" Rosalina gasps, rolling around on the floor. Bits of dead leaves embed themselves in her ponytail, but she doesn't seem to care. They continue to laugh and laugh until I begin to think the entire situation isn't funny anymore. I decide to leave them on the floor, holding their stomachs. As much as my clumsiness may be amusing, I have to use my training time wisely, and watching my district partners chortle is a waste of precious time.

I wish there were more time. It always seems to fly by, disappearing into nowhere, like a young mockingjay flying into the clouds because it doesn't know any better. I would do anything to have more time; to train, to love, to live. But time, like all precious things, has to fly away at some point. And only fate can determine when my time will fly away, into the clouds of the afterlife.

~~~

Lunchtime isn't long after. Rosalina, Hestia, Hemlock, and I decide upon dining together. Rosalina invites Tyler along and he complies, but Mendel and Till from District Eleven do not. Haymitch, despite my requests, is insistent upon sitting alone in a corner, content to eat by himself.

We are not the only tributes sitting in a group. All twelve Careers have taken up an entire table for themselves. Intron and Exon, the twins, are shoving each other rowdily while in the midst of a friendly argument, and Lex and Quarren from Two are quick to join. Siren is gossiping away to a silent Naiada, who seems bored by the prospect of spending an hour in her district partner's company. Cleat is talking quietly to Miracle, who is trying to seduce him (to little success, as Siren still has his attention). Venom and Platina are in deep discussion, and the more petite of the two is smiling evilly. Lethae and Frond, however, are silent, chewing on whatever foods they have chosen from the massive buffet.

Another group consists of all the members of District Seven. Pine and Harpin (I remember their names from the lift ride yesterday) are talking over each other while trying to tell the other male a story. The male, a big, bulky guy who seems more brawn than brains, is nodding along, but I doubt he is listening since he is ogling over the other female. I just glance over her, since she doesn't look like much.

Finally, there is a pair from District Three, a pair from Eight, and a pair from Ten, each sitting with their district partner but not all together. From District Three, there is a fifteen-year-old named Intella Gently and a boy that I cannot remember the name of. She is telling him something while using wild hand gestures, and he is smiling toothily (or metal-ly... what are the things on his teeth called again? Braces?) while staring at her like she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. I feel a pang of grief- he is obviously in love with her- but bury it down in the depths of my soul. I cannot feel for someone who will (most likely) die. The two from Eight- Calico and Bolt, if I remember correctly- seem to be very good friends, because they are conversing as friends would, and Calico keeps laughing loudly. Devon, from Ten, is looking at Willie as if Willie were his younger brother; however, the twelve-year-old doesn't notice, since he is examining the multiple types of bread rolls. "This one's from Four, right, Devon?" I hear him exclaim loudly. "Since it's green. And look, here's the kind from District Six!"

The rest of the tributes all sit as far apart as possible. I observe the other boy from Three, the one that isn't sitting across from Intella- Smoke is his name. He is devouring a bowl full of grapes as fast as he can, shoving them into his mouth three at a time while glancing hurriedly around at the other tributes, as if expecting someone to attack him at any moment. As he glances at our table, he makes eye contact with me, and gives me a calculating glare until I turn away.

I focus my attention on Hemlock, who has just sat down across from me. She is grinning and holding out a bright red slice of something with a pinkish-crimson, fleshy inside. It is dripping with translucent red juice and has small, greenish-white seeds. "Here, take it," she says.

"What is it?"

"It's a slice of a tomato, silly!" She gestures to her plate, where two other slices of the "tomato" are placed on a sandwich. "Didn't I promise you yesterday that you should try one? I suggest putting it on your sandwich, though, like I have. They don't taste as good plain unless they're cherry tomatoes."

I take the slice from her, pinching it between my thumb and index finger. It is cold and looks unappetizing. "A cherry tomato?" I prompt, setting it down on the edge of my plate.

"Cherry tomatoes are miniature tomatoes," Hemlock explains. "They're sweet. Like candy."

Hestia leans towards me and says, in a loud whisper, "Hemlock loves fruits and vegetables. Tomatoes don't really taste like candy. But they're… pretty good."

"Yes, they do taste like candy!" Hemlock says indignantly.

"Okay, okay," I say, taking the tomato slice and putting it on my sandwich, wincing a bit when the juice combines with the bread. I don't particularly love when different foods combine. I am somewhat of a picky eater. But if Hemlock and Hestia say the tomato is good, it must be good… right? "Stop arguing, you two. I'll try it."

And I do. I lift the sandwich up to my mouth and I take a bite.

The sandwich, once good, is now…

Ruined!

I manage to swallow the bite without spitting it out (which is an impressive feat, I must say) and snatch up my glass of water, taking large gulps of the clear liquid until the taste of the tomato is gone from my mouth. Hestia, Tyler, and Rosalina are laughing loudly; Tyler and Rosalina's faces are flushed a bright red and Hestia is practically crying in glee. Heads turn to look in our direction and I lower mine in embarrassment when Venom from Two calls out, "Ooh look, they've managed to poison Twelve already!" And, in the midst of it all, Hemlock looks like a wilted flower, disappointed that I don't like tomatoes.

Oh, what am I saying? I hate tomatoes!

Hestia does not seem to notice the stares around us. "For Panem's sake!" She chokes out, wiping her eyes, "I've never laughed harder. No, really… you should have seen the look on your face!"

"Thanks for warning me," I grumble, as our fellow tributes begin to look away, finding their food far more interesting than the plain merchant girl from District Twelve.

"They really are good," Hemlock says dejectedly. "Nobody else here agrees with me. Maybe it's because I've been eating tomatoes since I was an infant. But there are plenty of people in Eleven who share my love for them."

"I'm sure they taste fine," I assure her, ignoring when Hestia mumbles a distinct "not" under her breath. "I'm just accustomed to different tastes. My father owns a sweet shop, so I grew up around chocolate and licorice, not tomatoes and… and…"

"Snap peas," she helps me out. "Squash. Acorn squash. You have got to try that! We never get to eat that back in the district, but now I'm in the Capitol, I can eat it whenever I want!" Hemlock springs up from her seat. "In fact, I should get you some. You'll like it more than tomatoes. Especially if there's brown sugar sprinkled on top. I tried that last night… it was delicious." She proceeds to skip over to the buffet table, retrieving the "acorn squash" for me.

I turn to Rosalina, Tyler, and Hestia, but I address Hestia in particular. "Should I eat it?" I ask.

"Yes," they respond in tandem, beside themselves with laughter, obviously excited to see my expression once again. Chuckling to myself, I take their answer as a no, and dig in to my side dish of roasted potatoes.

~~~

It is very early in the morning: around four o'clock. I awoke a few minutes ago desperately needing water, and after I quenched my thirst, I couldn't bring myself to slip back under the covers (as soft and warm as they are). Instead, I slipped into more suitable morning garments- flowy black pants and a pale green blouse- and left the room, careful to not wake Rosalina in the process. Currently, I am walking down the hall in my bare feet, tiptoeing past Augusta's and Alder's rooms, on my way to the lounge.

I pass through the dining room, and an Avox is immediately standing at my side. She has the most beautiful eyes, but she covers them with her brunette hair as she ducks shyly. I smile at her and wave her off, whispering, "I'm just on my way to the lounge," and she disappears quickly through the third door on the far wall. I do not follow her and instead take off through the fifth door, sighing in relief when I enter the lounge.

But I am not alone.

It is a lonely room, and is often devoid of human life. But not now. It is a room with plush reclining chairs and a large, flat-screen television, and in the midst of it all there is a black-haired, olive-skinned boy who is currently curled up on a sofa, tears streaming down his face and an Avox at his side, who is holding a box of tissues and trying to comfort him. But the comforting doesn't do much good, for he just cries harder every time he looks at the elderly Avox… I assume because he is sorry for what they've done to her.

"Tyler!" I call softly. He and the Avox are startled, but the woman collects herself first and gives me a grateful, tight-lipped smile before retreating back into the shadows. I run to the thirteen-year-old, who is attempting to wipe his tears away and look as if he was not crying at all. It is no use. Tyler's eyes are puffy and red, and when I reach out to hug him, he just sobs again.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, Maysilee, I'm supposed to be strong, but… but I can't stand it…"

"Shh. It's okay. Shh," I say, sinking into the sofa cushions and holding him close, as if I am his temporary mother. "What's the matter, Tyler? Is it the Games?"

He stares up to me, his tear-clouded gray eyes wide and glistening. "Sort of… I mean, the prospect of the Games is frightening and all. But I don't want to die, and I don't want Rosalina to die! Or you, or Haymitch, or Hemlock or Hestia or naïve Willie from Ten or-" his voice cracks, and he doesn't finish his sentence. "I'm too young for this. I'm thirteen; I don't deserve to be in these Games. I don't stand a chance."

I cannot lie and say he does stand a chance, and yet I cannot say he doesn't. I have choose my words carefully. "Tyler, I can't say you're going to win this thing," I sigh. "I can't say Rosalina is going to win this thing, or Haymitch. I can't even tell myself that. But you have a choice… you can give up or you can fight. If you want to have a chance, you have to fight, and so does Rosalina, and Haymitch, and myself. Understood?"

It seems as if his tears have vanished, and now his eyes gleam in a fascinated way. "I have a choice," he echoes me. "I can give up or I can fight."

"Yes."

"Thank you," Tyler stands, abruptly, his voice lowering. "Thank you. I will fight. I will fight and my sister will fight and it will all turn out okay."

"Tyler," I say, cautiously, "I can't promise you that it will turn out okay…"

His hand shoots out and he covers my mouth. "No, Maysilee! It will turn out okay if I want it to turn out okay. I'm good at this sort of thing, all right? Don't worry about me. I'll make it just fine- I'll stay strong now. I'll stay strong until the end. I'll fight until the end."

Before I can respond, Tyler is out the door, leaving me to ponder what he has just said. None of it made any sense towards the end. Why is he so assured it will turn out okay? He is good at what sort of thing? What does he mean, "the end"- the end of his life? the end of the Games? Why was it that when he told me he would fight until the end, his eyes seemed to take on the look of a caged wild animal? I conclude that my fright is based on nothing at all. Tyler is just so afraid he is rambling. That has to be it.

So why do I get the sensation that I'm mothering an insane serial killer?

~~~

At breakfast, Augusta blathers on about the newest skin dye- a pale coral pink. "It would look fabulous on you, hon!" She tells Tyler, who looks positively sick at the idea of permanently becoming my stylist Rosea's twin (at least, colour-wise). Alder stumbles in about halfway through and vomits all over the floor (to which Augusta says, "Oh, my… if you excuse me, I must go fix my lipstick). Haymitch doesn't make an appearance at all, having given up eating at the table with the rest of us- at least he can order food back in his room. Rosalina and I scarf down our buttermilk pancakes as fast as humanly possible and retreat up to our room in minutes, content to just sit together.

"What are you going to do for private sessions today?" I ask her as we change into our training uniforms.

"Not much. I think I might build a fire and… hang a dummy over it?" She shudders. "I think it's terrible, even if I'm just killing a dummy, and it's one of the oldest tricks in the books- Augusta mentioned that at least two tributes she's escorted have partook in that during their sessions- but I'll get a decent score. Four or five, possibly six. I might even get a bonus point if I throw in my knowledge of edible plants!" She laughs, feigning optimism. "How about you?"

"I honestly don't know," I confess. "Something with spears and edible plants. Might go for the friendly angle and talk to the Gamemakers the entire time. For some reason, I doubt many tributes have done that, even though it's not that hard."

"What? Talk to them?"

"Yeah," I shrug, bending over until my head is upside-down, gathering my hair into a ponytail and only standing upright when a hairband is securely tied around it. "Can you really imagine the Careers entering the room and saying, 'Hello, Gamemakers, how is your day going?' I'm thinking they all say their name and their district and simply do what they came to do."

"You have a point," Rosalina smiles. "I, personally, wasn't planning on doing a talk show-related performance, either. You're pretty smart, Maysilee… and could you by any chance help me braid my hair? I can do side braids, but not down my back."

"Of course," I say, and she turns her back to me. I'm decent at braiding, after all of the practice I've had on Myra and Fauna. My fingers are quick to divide her hair into three sections and begin the weaving process. "Thing is," I continue on with our original topic, "Let's say I use the talk show method. Then I'll have to keep up that angle all the time. The interviews, the Games, and the rest of my camera life… if I make it out of the Games. I feel like that would be challenging. I mean, becoming Jacen Iridescent? It is the worst dream imaginable!" I tie the end of the braid with another hairband, and she turns to face me. "But I better stick with what I have, since Alder isn't going to help us any." Unless I get an eight or above in private sessions.

"Well," she looks me up and down, "I trust and believe that you will choose whatever is best for you. And you look just fabulous, as Augusta would say. Ready for the last day of training?"

"As ready as I'll ever be," I say solemnly, and follow her out the door.

~~~

I spend the morning perfecting my spear-throwing technique, attempting hand-to-hand combat,and learning how to skin (and clean) a rabbit; the latter of which is not the most pleasant task. The trainer isn't pleasant either- she is a big, burly woman whose accent is one that most attain in District Ten. "Now," she says gruffly, plopping a realistic-looking rubber rabbit in front of me and handing me a large knife, "We ain't got no real bunnies up for grabs here- Capitol doesn't let us trainers kill things here in the Centre- so I can't properly demonstrate on a bunny for ya, darlin'. But I s'pose the rubber bunnies work too." She proceeds to explain that you make cuts "'round the hind legs" and then "a few slits here and there." She then goes on to show me how to "viciously slice off that damn lasso-cutter (a foul name in District Ten?) of a tailbone," and "slide that skin right off, darlin'!"

And while I perform this torturous surgery on a rubber rabbit, with a half-crazy woman yelling "don't be 'fraid to draw some blood, darlin!" in my ear, I silently believe that this is the most repulsive thing I have ever done in my sixteen years of life.

There is still time before lunch to train, so I head over to edible plants for a last-minute review (not that I need it). The trainer welcomes me loudly- I think I am his favourite student this year- but Hestia, who is also here, is too preoccupied to pay any attention to me. Her nose is buried in a large book that uses 12'' by 12'' paper, and there is an extremely worried expression painted over her normally smiling features. The trainer asks me if I want to complete the edible plants test again, but I decline, for I want to see what is in this book.

"Hestia," I say, crouching down beside her. "Where'd you get that, and what is it?"

"Oh… Maysilee…" she looks up and I can see the fear in her eyes. "I-I-I… just found this book on the shelf, and it is just so frightening, I can't possibly stand it, oh, Maysilee..."

The shelf she is talking about is located at the back of the station, holding a variety of books on different types of flora. I skimmed through a few yesterday, but none caught my interest. I must have overlooked this one, and its apparent relevance. "What's it about?" I strain to get a good look at the pages.

She holds it out to me, making my job easier. "The trainer said it was a new addition to the shelf," Hestia says. "He hadn't gotten to look closely at it yet, but he knew it was about… about…"

I close the book, glancing at the cover, and finish her sentence for her. "The Poisons of the Fifty Arenas," I breathe out the title. And then I'm flipping through the pages, taking in poison after poison. Some are those created by the Gamemakers, some are plants, some are those that have been around for as long as anyone can remember. Nephrophate, aconite, belladonna, leveno, modified dimethylmercury, modified potassium cyanide, modified hydrochloric acid, ethrone acid… the list goes on, for pages and pages.

"Hestia, there are so many! Why are there so many?" I ask, shutting the book after viewing a large picture of nightlock displayed on page twenty-three and perusing a paragraph on carbon monoxide. I'm shocked almost to the point of hyperventilation, and I hope I do not have a panic attack like Haymitch did yesterday.

"Maysilee," she clutches my shoulders, "Don't worry. These won't all be in the arena, I'm sure. After all, the title says, 'The Poisons of the Fifty Arenas,' not the 'Fiftieth Arena.' And I recognize some from past Games. Remember the forty-fourth games, when everyone who touched the pie at the feast died a few days later? That contained modified dimethylmercury, I'm sure of it. They've also used leveno, and the hydrochloric acid…" Hestia lists off a few more deadly poisons, as mentioned in the book.

"Yes, yes," I interrupt her. "But they've never used aconite before, or modified potassium cyanide, or ethrone acid… or am I just forgetting? Please tell me I'm just forgetting," I beg.

"You are not forgetting, Maysilee," Hestia whispers. "And if those poisons haven't been in other arenas, then there's only one other arena that they will be in."

We let that sink in, clutching onto each other for support, and I hope she is wrong. Because it can't be poisonous! It can't be…

The 50th Hunger Games arena.

This arena.

This year.

~~~

Lunch is strangely quiet, probably because private sessions begin in thirty minutes. Those of us who sit in groups talk softly, and most of the discussion is on the private sessions and the interviews (which are tomorrow). I ask the others what their plans are for their sessions, and they all give me varying answers. Hestia is going to throw spears at dummies, which is probably what I will do, even though I haven't given it much thought. Tyler says he's planning on building a shelter, maybe show off a few camouflaging skills. Rosalina relates to the others what she related to me this morning. But Hemlock's idea is, by far, the best.

"I'm going to tell them about the tributes," she exclaims. "Show them how good of a memory I have. I'll tell them Platina is afraid of fire and Siren is afraid of water… that'll probably give me at least a six, right there!" We all laugh.

"What about you, Maysilee?" Asks Tyler.

I shrug. "I was thinking about talking to them, like Hemlock, except crack a few jokes and be friendly. My performance will have something to do with spears and edible plants. That's all I have so far… I suppose I'll just wing it." I really haven't given it much thought. I'll need something spectacular, since I will be last to go. The Gamemakers will probably be bored to death this year, what with double the amount of tributes.

I also wonder why they didn't extend the private sessions to the morningtime, as well. Since there are so many of us, the sessions are going to run very late. The initial broadcast of the scores will probably run a few hours later, as well. Or maybe they are thinking of cutting our sessions short? I really haven't the slightest idea.

After thirty minutes, a high-pitched woman's voice rings out in the room, through the speaker at the end of the room. "Intron Thundrous" is announced, and the said seventeen-year-old stands, walking quickly and purposefully out of the cafeteria.

"This is going to be a long wait," I mumble to Rosalina, who laughs.

"Might as well kick back and relax. After all, we have hours and hours ahead of us."

And so we do.

~~~

"Rosalina Dark," the voice announces, seven hours and twenty-seven minutes later. My friend stands, looking nervous.

"Good luck," I say.

"You too."

And for eight minutes, I am left alone, confined to my thoughts.

~~~

"Maysilee Donner."

I have a plan. Even if it is the worst private session plan in the history of the Hunger Games, I still have a plan. I am going to talk to the Gamemakers, and then I am going to go to edible plants and display my skills. After that, I will pick up a spear and I improvise from there on. It is a terrible plan, but I am sticking to it. I think Myra would applaud my dedication.

I collect myself and stand up, correcting my posture and walking briskly through the cafeteria doors, which are held open by a pair of Avoxes. They glance at me sadly, but I don't understand their pity until I am standing in front of the Gamemakers, who mill about on the balcony above the room.

It is at that moment that I realise I am in trouble. At least half of them are unconscious from the amount of alcohol they have consumed these past seven hours and thirty-five (thirty-six?) minutes, and the rest are talking amongst each other boisterously, not having noticed me standing in front of them. I feel a bit put-off in the way they are treating me: not like a dignified tribute, but a bit of dirt on the bottom of their shoe that can go unnoticed for a little while.

"Hello?" I say loudly, which makes a few of them jump. I paste a smile on my face as the half that are not fast asleep turn to stare at me intently. "I am Maysilee Donner," I begin, returning Sorphigan Pronx's- the Head Gamemaker with the long, waxed moustache- gaze. "I am the second female tribute from District Twelve, and it is an honour to meet you all."

They are a bit confused. Sorphigan Pronx recoils a bit, because I doubt many tributes say it is an honour to meet him. He searches for the lie in my eyes, but I make sure to hide it well beneath the smiley, awed façade I have currently taken on. Finally, after a prolonged pause, he says, "You may begin," although it is not so much a statement as it is a question.

"Thank you, Mr. Pronx," I reply. "Now, I bet most tributes don't talk to you all. But I'm not most tributes. In fact, I could possibly be the biggest failure of a tribute you've ever encountered. I mean, have you seen me throw a knife?"

One of the Gamemakers can't resist calling out, "Miss Donner, do you plan on throwing knives for us? I may want to flee the room before you demonstrate." This raises a few chuckles, especially when he uses his groosling leg to imitate his knife sailing through the air and hitting him on the head. I grin.

"Sir, I fully agree that it would not be wise to throw knives for you all. Panem knows whether or not one of the knives would rebound off the dummy and come sailing back at you, impaling that groosling leg you hold! It would be very tragic indeed. We would have to hold a funeral." I imitate wiping a tear from the corner of my eye, which sets a fourth of them laughing.

"No, I am planning on demonstrating my proficiency in edible plants," I explain while heading in the direction of one of my favourite stations. "My parents own a sweet shop, you see, so I know which plants are used to flavour the candies… and which candies to avoid so I do not become obese!" Some of them laugh loudly when I lift the hem of my shirt and show them my flat stomach. "I see I succeeded in staying thin, don't you think?"

Back in the district, it is a gift to be obese. Some of us are so thin you can see our bones- thin because of hunger. Some of us kneel over in the streets from starvation. But in the Capitol, it is a gift to be thin. They go through surgeries to remove access fat, gorge on food and then drink liquids that make them throw it all up again (some do this regularly- this disorder is called bulimia nervosa), or refuse to eat at all, passing by the large abundance of good, rich food (called anorexia nervosa). In the Capitol, they consider it a gift to be wasteful. It is despicable! But I have to pretend I am one of them in these five days that I am here; I have to pretend I am one of them for the Gamemakers, so they will understand me.

I nod to the trainer, who holds a bucket of various plants in his hands. He smiles at me and asks if I would like to perform the test. "Yes, please," I reply, a bit nervous. This time, in stead of writing my answers down on a piece of paper, I am going to answer aloud, for the Gamemakers. It's not that different, but it's different all the same.

The trainer puts on a pair of gloves and begins. He holds up a branch covered in light green, teardrop-shaped leaves with jagged edges and ripe, elliptical berries coloured a reddish black. Easy. "Mulberries," I spout out, without a second thought. "Genus: Morus. They grow on trees. The berries are a great source of nutrition, but the leaves are intoxicating… although they are the main source of food for the silkworm." I look up at the Gamemakers. "How many of you are wearing silk?" I ask, and a few that have been listening shout their confirmation. "Without mulberry leaves, you would not be wearing that silk. Thank District Eight for having their own grove of mulberry trees."

I go on. Black walnuts, poison ivy, spearmint, etcetera, etcetera. Three minutes later, the trainer and I are struck with consecutive thoughts, although they are not mutual. Mine is how I am going to incorporate spears in my session in a creative way, and his is how to impress the Gamemakers further. "Now-" I say, just as he says, "Wait a moment, let me get something."

He rushes to a corner and picks up a clear tub full of vials in the few seconds that I am unsure what to do. "Here I have a container full of poisons and acids," he tells the Gamemakers. "As you know, we do not show these samples to tributes during regular training. However, I'm sure Maysilee can tell you the names of these substances."

I instantly catch onto his plan, and the Gamemakers lean forward in anticipation as I say, "My ally Hestia, from District Eleven, and I found a book earlier today. It contained a list of poisons and acids that have been and will be in the fifty arenas. I am quite positive that no other tribute has ever found that book." I pause for dramatic effect, and the trainer uses this time to lift a vial of what appears to be nothing. But I'm sure it is something. It has to be…

"Potassium cyanide. Modified to kill in seconds," I say. Another vial, this with just the smallest bit of colorless liquid at the bottom, is held up for my inspection. It is… "Dimethylmercury. Severely toxic. It can be absorbed through the skin, and even if unmodified and touched with gloves it can kill you, although it would take months. Is it safe through the vial?" I ask the trainer.

"Yes. The vial is specially adapted so the dimethylmercury cannot poison, unless the vial is opened, of course," he says. We do a few more- belladonna, ethane acid, nephrophate- and then he retreats, taking the vials with him.

"Finally," I tell the Gamemakers (well, not all of them, but the half that are conscious and intrigued), "let's go back to the edible plants. One plant, the tomato plant, bears fruits that I assume you've all tried. Red, juicy, and in my opinion, absolutely disgusting. Another of my allies, Hemlock from Twelve, loves tomatoes, and persuaded me to try one yesterday. You should have seen my face when I tasted it," I smile, and they chuckle.

"So," I look Sorphigan Pronx in the eye, "I was thinking you probably have a tomato up there on the buffet table on your balcony, do you not?"

"We have one!" Yells the same Gamemaker who called out earlier, after checking.

"Sir, would you mind tossing it down for me?"

A few exclaim in surprise, but I suppose it isn't against the rules, because seconds later there is a tomato sailing in the air towards me. I catch it and set it down.

"And do you by any chance have acorn squash?"

Immediately, an object wrapped in tin foil is dropped off of the balcony, and I catch it as well. I unwrap it and find half of an acorn squash in all its cooked glory. I discard the foil, crumpling it up and throwing it in the other direction, and set the squash down carefully next to the tomato.

"How about elderberry jam?" I make it into a little game: I ask and the foods are thrown down to me. Soon I have a feast set in a line directly in front of the Gamemaker's balcony, and then I run to the right side of the room, where the spear station is located in the back.

I pick up a spear and call, "All of these foods can be poisonous or vile! And therefore, I shall destroy them." I position myself to where I have a clear shot at the elderberry jam jar. "Elderberry jam is delicious, I admit. But uncooked, elderberries are poisonous!" I pull back and thrust my arm forward, throwing the spear at the elderberry jam jar. It is a small object, but from the sound of shattering glass, I have hit the jar.

I perform this seven more times, each time hitting the food I was aiming for. And then it is time for the tomato: my final chance to prove myself. I choose one last spear and position myself so I will hit the tomato. I inhale, lean back, and then throw myself forward, releasing the spear.

Before the spear hits, I know its path is faulty. Before the spear hits, I know it won't hit the tomato. When the spear hits, it is inches away from the loathsome thing.

Silence is the worst thing to hear now, but it is what meets my ears. No applause- just silence. All of the conscious Gamemakers sit quietly, frozen in their purple-coloured chairs, staring at the spear, staring at the tomato. Contemplating what score they will give me, now that I have made a mistake. I have made a mistake! At the worst possible time! And now I don't know what to do. What do I say? What can I say to make up for this? I need a score of eight for Alder's help. If I can't cover up my mistake, then District Twelve will be doomed this year- I will have let Rosalina, Tyler, and Haymitch down without them even knowing it.

There is a single word that escapes my lips as I stand there, paralyzed. I say it so softly that I doubt the Gamemakers can hear it. I say it so softly that I cannot even hear it. But it is still said aloud.

"No," I breathe.

Because if I let my district partners down, I don't think I'll ever be able to live with the guilt.

~~~

*finis de capitulum quattuor*


	6. 5: The Capitol, Part IV

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

~~~

Chapter Five: The Capitol, Part IV

Thoughts of what we were invade

The miles that stand between

Can't separate

You're all I hoped you'd become

Sister, I see you

Dancing on the stage

Of memory

Sister, I miss you

-Sister, The Nixons

~~~

She won't leave me alone.

No matter how much I kick and scream and cry and cover my ears with my hands and bury my face into the goose-feather duvet and pillows, Rosalina is still there, and she is still asking me questions about my private session that go unanswered. It's been thirty minutes, at least, and she continues to ask what happened and stroke my hair (no matter how many times I grumble and swat her fingers away from my dirty blonde locks). I really don't know when she became so persistent. Maybe when she met Hestia?

"Please, just go away!" I yell. "I want to be alone! I need time to collect myself and you aren't giving me any. When did you become so determined to make me talk, anyway?"

"Just now," she says, after a slight pause. "I believe that if I stay here long enough, then you will tell me what happened and I can reassure you again. It may take hours, but you will tell me eventually."

My mumble of "you'll be eventually disappointed" makes her laugh. It may be slightly muffled in my mind, because my hands continue to cover my ears, but it is a nice laugh.

"Really," Rosalina continues, "only the most drastic of performances could have made you react this way. Even a one-worthy performance wouldn't make you kick and scream for half an hour. I continue to be quite curious about what you did during the… ah… eleven minutes you spent in there. What could possibly spur your anger?"

"I didn't do that bad," I mutter, and it is the truth. I really didn't do that terribly. I'll get a decent score. But a score that is not enough to please me.

"So what are you crying and screaming for?"

I let you all down. The answer is the same sentence that has run through my head ever since I was dismissed by the Gamemakers, after joking about tomatoes hating me as much as I hated them and bowing to signal my session complete. Surely missing that tomato was the action that will seal my fate and the rest of our fates in the arena. What, oh, what have I done?

"What do you mean, you let us all down?" Rosalina is confused.

Did I say that aloud? Damn. Well, can't hurt to tell her now, and she'll pester me for eternity about it if I don't reply. I remove my face from my pillow and look her in the eye. "I made a deal with Alder," I say. "Well, Alder made a deal with me. Told me he'd only help us all out if I managed an eight in training. And guess what? I blew it."

She looks shocked. "How did you… blow it?"

"Missed. I missed hitting the last… target." I do not tell her it was a tomato. No more questions, please! Let me stew in my misery!

Rosalina seems to be genuinely concerned, but tries to be reassuring at the same time. "Oh, Maysilee…" she leans forward to give me a hug, but I push her away. This doesn't faze her and she just stands up from her seat on the bed. "You haven't let us down, okay? No matter what. Without you, Alder wouldn't have even given us a chance, anyway. And who knows? You may still get an eight. I might still get a six. The Gamemakers are unpredictable."

I mull her words over. "Thanks," I breathe after a moment. "Now… can you please…"

"Leave?" She chuckles. "Certainly. I was just on my way. Keep in mind, the scores start in an hour, so you'd better be there." Rosalina turns and walks to the doorway, and then she stops in her tracks, turning around to face me. "One last thing," she calls. "Thank you for talking to my brother this morning."

"You knew about that?"

"Of course… you may not have noticed, but he's been pretty messed up lately. He'll be chattering on with Augusta and laughing about this and that, and then he goes back to his room and cries himself to sleep. I've tried to comfort him to no avail." She sighs. "Anyway, I saw him walk out of the lounge with a smile on his face, and then you followed behind him a few minutes later, so deep in thought you didn't even notice me."

"Yes- yes I was- deep in thought, that is. Probably thought you were an Avox." I force out a laugh. "You're welcome. It was no problem at all, by the way. For some reason, comforting people comes naturally to me. Almost as naturally as it does to you."

She smiles one last time and then looks away, stepping over of the threshold and closing the door softly behind her. I watch intently until the knob clicks in place, and then the tears flow freely again. Nothing she says will change this. I have let them down, I'm positive… and if my fellow tributes die in the arena, it will be all my fault. I can pretend to not believe this, but at the end of the day, the guilt will all come crashing back.

At the end of the day, I will realise that I'm no less of an actor than Haymitch Abernathy.

~~~

"The training scores are scores that the tributes receive after conducting performances in front of our wonderful Gamemakers. These performances are called the tributes' 'private sessions' and are exactly that… private sessions. And wouldn't we all love to know what happens in these sessions? Alas, they are private, and so only the tributes and the Gamemakers know of what happened in the Training Room earlier today." Caesar's face dominates the screen as he laughs merrily at his own words. In his hand he holds a script in which our training scores are typed up neatly, and behind him is a projector that will display our faces when our name and score is announced. And I am a nervous wreck.

Rosalina's hand clutches my knee tightly, as if to remind me she is there. It is only slightly comforting. On my other side sits Haymitch, his eyes focused on nothing but the television, but his hand gripping my other knee as well. I am not sure what to do with my own hands, so I press them together in my lap and mutter prayers under my breath while Alder gazes at me, looking amused.

Amused? Why does he look amused, of all things? It's like he wants me to fail! Which I will… I will fail.

"As you all know, the scores range from one to twelve, one being terrible and twelve being absolutely amazing. There have been very few ones handed out in the past five decades, and no elevens or twelves," Caesar continues, looking jovial for reasons I cannot fathom. I suppose that's his job, though… to seem jovial, even if he is not. Then he leans into the camera, as if seeking to tell us a secret. "The Gamemakers have told me we have an interesting mix this year. Knife-throwers, axe-handlers, edible plant prodigies, and intent killers, they say!" He chuckles. "Well, let's see if our training scores turn out to be worthy of these titles. Let's begin… with Intron Thundrous!"

The said boy's picture appears on the projector behind Caesar. He is large and well-built, with sandy blonde hair. The expression on his face is murderous but a bit blank. Intron and his brother, Exon, aren't smart, and so they will not be large competition. "Intron, Intron… my, my, a score of… eight!"

Of course, he turns up with the score I need- and so does his brother.

The scores flash by in a blur. Platina- 10, Miracle- 8. All of the tributes from Two get nines, except for Venom, who receives a ten. Smoke- 6, Luther- 4, Intella- 5, Destiny- 2. Cleat and Frond get matching nines, Siren and Naiada matching eights. The Careers (Districts One, Two, and Four) always get scores ranging from eight to ten, and if they get anything less than that, they are most always kicked out or killed first out of all of the pack. Of course, since they're Careers, they've probably all been trained or have some experience with weapons. It is their experience with weapons that they show the Gamemakers that gets them such awesome scores.

One of the boys from Five gets a six. On the screen, his eyes take on a sullen, morose attitude. I think he should be one to look out for, if he survives the bloodbath, based on how massive his is. I'll be he could snap someone's neck any day.

Then it's little, thirteen-year-old Anahita with her caramel brown hair and almond-shaped eyes that appears, and she is the only person to get a score of one. I feel sorry for her, but dismiss it quickly, since it is easier to forget their names and scores before you kill them. Not that I will kill her. I don't think I could. Grant- 8, Pine- 5, Harpin- 3. The girl with the red hair from Seven- I still cannot catch her name- gets the number that matches her district. Her picture on the screens is a rare shot of her smiling, but even in the grin there is something uncanny about her. Still, she doesn't strike me as anyone special. She'll die quickly, despite the score that shows her talent.

Bolt- 6, Calico- 5. I'm noticing there aren't many low scores this year. There's always a few people who gets ones, twos, threes, and fours, but this year there are plenty in the five through seven range. Swayla- 2, Tess- 5. I wonder whether Districts Ten, Eleven, and Twelve will meet the current standards, or possibly achieve higher. I am proved correct when Devon receives a nine and Lassona an eight, although twelve-year-old Willie is a bit disheartening with his low three.

Mendel and Till from eleven obtain fours, and then it is Hestia's face dominating the screen. She is caught in mid-laughter and her platinum blonde hair is sticking up in all directions, contrasting greatly with her deep brown skin. "Hestia Wolmack, from District Eleven… gaining herself a respectable eight!" Rosalina, Tyler and I cheer and we can hear loud whoops from the floor below. It's presumably Hestia, Hemlock, and the ever-rowdy Chaff, who won the Games five years ago and drinks his sorrows away. Really. I've never seen him without a flask of alcohol in his single hand, and I'm sure he would hold two if he had not permanently lost his hand in the Games. With the amount of drinking he does, he's probably great friends with Alder, although I think he should find a different alcohol-consuming buddy (after all, Alder is surly and forty-nine, while Chaff is rambunctious and twenty-two).

"… interesting. She has scored a six!" I am pulled out of my thoughts by Caesar, who is grinning with his dark green eyebrows raised good-naturedly. It takes me a moment to realise he is speaking of Hemlock, and then I am on my feet yet again, clapping my hands as I hear thumping from the flat below us. "Six! Six! Six!" I hear Hestia yell excitedly, and I can just imagine her twirling Hemlock around in a dance originating in District Eleven.

And now it is only us left. I sober quickly, sitting once more, although now it is on the edge of the sofa with ramrod posture. Rosalina and Haymitch clutch my knees tighter still, and I turn to Haymitch, about to tell him off for the pain he is inflicting upon me. But instead of my reprimanding him, I find he is staring at me, and I am caught in his moonlight-silver eyes. I cannot look away, and neither can he, until "Haymitch Abernathy- nine!" is called through the television set and Augusta is pulling him into a hug, screaming in delight.

"I haven't had a tribute get more than a five in years!" She smiles, tears of joy escaping her eyes. The black mascara and eyeliner she has applied run down her cheeks and leave long, black trails in their wake. "And… just… a nine…" she sobs into Haymitch's shoulder, and he looks slightly uncomfortable. Despite this, there is no emotion on his blank face, and he is not showing the joy he should be.

"Acting?" I whisper into his ear.

"Not exactly," he whispers back, "as I am not replacing the emotion with anything else."

I nod, because I suppose this is acceptable to some degree. Then, I become immersed in the television again as Tyler's innocent face appears on the projector behind Caesar. They have chosen a picture that is not of him smiling- instead, he is looking up to something, the expression on his face mirroring one of a puppy dog's. I'm sure every Capitol person outside of this Training Centre is oohing and ahhing at how adorable he looks.

Tyler's score, however, is anything but adorable. It makes Caesar literally jump up and down in his seat, squeaking excitedly. I have never seen him look so surprised or pleased. "Tyler Dark, with a…" he pauses for dramatic effect "Ten!"

Ten? Ten? Did I hear that correctly? Immediately, all of our heads snap towards the left, with looks of pure, utter shock. Haymitch's emotionless mask slips and his mouth gapes, Augusta's tears stop momentarily and then they are gushing from her eyes, Alder is looking quite dumbfounded, and Rosalina is stuttering. "T-T-Tyler? H-H-How d-d-did you d-d-do that? H-H-How did you g-g-get a t-t-ten?" She asks, her gaze full of wonder and fright. It's understandable. She's never had any reason to fear her little brother before. None of us have. But now that he has gotten a score better than Haymitch Abernathy, a score better than five-sixths of the Careers, a score better than a vast majority of the tributes… Tyler is dangerous, and Tyler has just painted a metaphorical target on his back.

We almost miss Rosalina's score. But we don't. And it is… two.

A two.

She gapes at the screen for a full minute. We all do. Eying that two with dislike, contemplating that ten with frightened fascination. We stare and stare in unsure silence until it's my picture, and I can't even prepare myself for my score. My score… that has to be an eight or I fail… I fail…

And I have failed. I have a seven.

I. Fail.

I have failed them. I have failed myself. I have failed District Twelve. We will die! I have killed them! These thoughts run through my mind once- twice- three times, before I can finally process it all. And I fully believe all of our brains have been wired in tandem, because there is a short pause before the bomb drops.

Augusta heaves a sigh, opening her mouth to tell us to get to bed, but it is cut off by Alder's gloating yell and Haymitch's quick exit to the roof. Tyler takes off, running out of the lounge and tripping over an ottoman, picking himself up again and disappearing out the door. But none of that compares to the sound Rosalina makes. Her shriek is loud and ear-splitting, a heartbroken note of the highest pitch imaginable, and it is the only warning we get before she's up and flying madly at the television, which Augusta has turned off.

It's all in fast forward, it's all in slow motion. Rosalina punching the television, Augusta trying to fend her off, Alder sitting back and taking a swig of white liquor. Rosalina's dark hair swinging around in mid-air and her fierce expression as she punches again, Augusta's sharp cries as the television screen shatters into a million pieces, coating the floor in glass, Alder's smirk and the flash of his metal alcohol flask as it is overturned. And Rosalina's screeching. The screeching that sounds as if she is some sort of rogue bird that will kill me, kill me, kill me, like I have killed her. I have killed them all.

And then there's another sound, drowning out the screeching. Is it a banshee? Rosalina? Is it all in my head? Or is it just me? What am I doing? What am I doing? It echoes in my head and I am screaming, screaming, screaming. My hands cover my eyes and then my ears and then my mouth and my ears again and I can't figure out where to put my hands. Should I cut them off? There's a knife in the dining room. Should I cut them off, and then should I cut my screams off? I'm already going to kill them all, why can't I kill myself?

My feet have a mind of their own. I can't go to the dining room to get that knife. I am going to Alder. I am shrieking incoherent things at my mentor and I am clawing him across the face. I'm not Maysilee any more. I am a monster. There are people tugging at my shirt, screaming at me to stop, covering my mouth, but I bite and claw them away and scratch Alder across the face. I'll kill him for making me kill them!

There are strong arms around my middle, and his firm chest is pressed against my back. He is whispering in my ear. "Maysilee, Maysilee, come back, come back. It's going to be okay. Breathe with me. Breathe with me." I'm turning my head and my eyes catch hold of silvery gray ones that bore into mine with such care. I almost drown in them. Almost. But I am a monster now. What am I doing? What am I doing?

I turn back to Alder. That is what I am doing. I am a monster now. I will kill… kill… kill…

But no. There's pain, now, starting at my face and flowing through my body. And then I am falling, even though there are arms around me, waiting to catch me when I'm done falling into the pit of blackness. As I am falling, I push away the monster and become myself again, just filled with a grief that I cannot understand. There are twelve phrases echoing in my mind again and again, eventually taken away by the blackness that swallows me, but still there in a place in my head that is too far away to reach.

I am Maysilee Donner.

I am from District Twelve.

I can become a monster.

I can forget to breathe.

I can live through pain.

I have gotten a seven.

I have failed them.

I have let them down.

I have killed them all.

I can kill them all.

I will kill them all.

Brace yourself.

~~~

I awake to warmth. I am cocooned in my goose-feather duvet feeling comfortable, as if I am wrapped in rays of dark sunshine. I cannot see anything, but the smell of the forest back home meets my nose, and I momentarily wonder if I am back in District Twelve. No, that's not right. We don't have goose-feather duvets back home, and there is no pillow this soft, and nobody sleeps with me except for Myra, when she is particularly frightened about something. She used to have a strong phobia of thunderstorms and would always climb under the covers with me. But now, there is no Myra. I'm in the Capitol. And...

There is someone sleeping with me?

"What the hell?" I exclaim loudly, throwing the duvet off myself and sitting up, feeling as if I was violated without knowing. It seems my cursing has woken the other member of the bed, because they sit up too, and I come face to face with a half-naked Haymitch Abernathy.

"Morning, sweetheart," he says, his curly hair tousled and his bare chest fully exposed, illuminated the sunlight that is streaming through the half-open curtains of a window. It must be very late in the morning by the position of the sun through the window- maybe ten or eleven o'clock. But that is beside the point. The point is that I have been sleeping with Haymitch Abernathy, in a see-through nightgown no less.

"Morning?" I repeat shrilly. "Is that all you have to say after I wake up and you are… you are… in my bed?" I look around the room for Rosalina to back me up, but she seems to have left already, her bed empty and her nightgown thrown carelessly on the floor.

"What?" He looks confused, but it quickly melts away to understanding. "You don't remember? ...But of course you don't. You were half asleep at the time." Haymitch reaches over and brushes a lock of hair out of my eyes, and I recoil only a bit. "What do you remember about your… temper tantrum last night?"

Temper tantrum? I focus my attention fully on the blank void that was last night and then it all comes rushing back. Private sessions, burying my face in the pillows, watching the training score results, Rosalina destroying the television, shrieking, screaming, becoming a monster, killing Alder… killing Alder. "I didn't kill Alder, did I?" I am surprised at the amount of concern in my voice. "Did I, Haymitch?"

He chuckles. "You might have wanted to. But no, you didn't, Maysilee. Just succeeded in scratching his face up with your nails. Then he punched you in the face and you broke your nose again. You went unconscious, and we took you and Alder to the hospital. They treated both of you and you're good as new. Bruise balm works wonders." He shakes his head. "Wish they had that sort of thing back in the district. All those injuries the miners get… Fauna's parents can only do so much with their herbs and salves."

"Shh," I whisper frantically. This might count as forbidden talk in the Capitol… and who knows who's watching. "What if you get in trouble for saying that? That's… rebellion, almost."

"Who cares?" Haymitch replies, bitterly. "They're going to kill me anyway. What harm can it do?"

"You might make it out."

"No. I refuse to. Not without… you." The truth I hear in these words is immense and I'm almost unable to stand it. Instead, I ignore his words. It hurts so much less.

"So why are you in my bed? Decided to check if I was okay and accidentally fell asleep in the process? Or have you been sleeping with me every night and leave before I wake?" I ask bitterly, sarcastically.

Haymitch laughs, matching my bitter, sarcastic tone. "You wish, sweetheart. No, we carried you back here and Rosalina changed your clothes for you and tucked you into bed. Sometime in the night you slipped out of unconsciousness and into sleep, and you had a nightmare. You were screaming my name for five minutes straight until you woke, and then you asked Rosalina to get me. She did, and once I entered your room, you practically begged me to sleep with you. I did. End of story."

His words make me duck my head, feeling ashamed. "I'm sorry… I didn't mean to wake you or- or-" My apology ends as he places his searing hot palm over my lips, effectively cutting me off. He catches my gaze with his and our eyes hold.

"Don't worry, Maysilee," he murmurs. "It is fine. I would do anything for you."

"Take your own life?" I remove his hand from my mouth, clasping it with my own hand and squeezing it tightly.

"Even that, I promise you." His face is sombre.

"You know that sort of promise is the most dangerous promise to make a day before the Games," I remark as I release his hand, standing up and walking over to the wardrobe, choosing the most simple dress I can find, something made of layers of sheer purple fabric that ends just before my knees. It looks like something I'd wear to a party back home, but it's everyday wear in the Capitol. Besides, I am feeling spontaneous after waking up with Haymitch by my side.

"Only the most dangerous promises are spoken by Haymitch Abernathy, sweetheart, didn't you know?" He teases, but it is a rhetorical question that does not need to be replied to, so I don't.

"One question before I make you leave so I can change," I say. "Was my 'temper tantrum,' as you call it so idiotically, for it was much more than that- breaking point is a much better term- anyway, was it okay? Was it normal? Am I… an anomaly out of all of the tributes?"

Haymitch ponders this a moment, ultimately responding with a straight, solemn facial expression. "If you prefer I call it 'breaking point,' then so be it. But I firmly believe that all tributes have a 'breaking point' before they enter the arena. Some have multiple 'breaking points.' I, personally, have had two." This he says gravely, looking a bit remorseful. "Even the Careers probably do, but in the privacy of their own rooms. They are only human." Then, he smiles. "I doubt many have as much as a dramatic outburst as you, though. Although your 'breaking point' was understandable. Guilt can become such a pent-up emotion, no?"

How does he know this? "Has Rosalina told you about Alder's… deal?"

"Yes, of course. In the hospital, when your nose was being fixed. We were conveniently alone, because Tyler and Augusta were both up in the flat, refusing to accompany us. Who knows why that is?" Haymitch shrugs. "Anyway, sweetheart, don't get your panties in a bunch. Alder likes to toy with people. That's how he won his Games… don't you remember from reruns? He had a total of seven allies and he lied to all of them, saying he'd help them out, and then he stabbed them at night. It was disturbing. So, I think Alder was lying to you. I thought he might help you that first day on the train, but I eventually realised he was never going to aid any of us in winning the Hunger Games."

Why are his words so reassuring? Why are his words so much more reassuring than Rosalina's? Is it because my brain can fully make sense of these words because they are the truth unmasked by politeness, or is it because it is Haymitch who is comforting me? I don't know, but I am thankful. A portion of the guilt has been lifted off my shoulders. "Thank you," I breathe, and he nods. "Now get out, so I can take a much-needed shower and change into this dress!"

"But-" Haymitch whines in a mocking tone, laughing.

"Oh, I don't want to put up with false excuses. Go on with you. Shoo." I giggle as he complies, slinking away through the doorway.

I watch him as he recedes, taking in his olive-skinned back and his well-defined shoulder blades, fighting the impulse to run over and trace my finger down his spine. I shiver at the pleasuring thought but chide myself once the door closes, because I really should not be thinking of how beautiful Haymitch Abernathy is, especially the day before the Games.

However, do wish the temptation were not so great.

~~~

"You mean I have to deal with that perverted, flamboyant hag again?"

Augusta recoils at my harsh words. Of course, I knew I would have to revisit Rosea again for the interviews before long, but I hate her so much and I didn't expect my prep team would begin work on me at two o'clock in the afternoon! Just the thought of more full-body polishes and injections and nail-painting and hair-shining gives me a migraine, and I hate my stylist so much I could just kill her.

"I… I…" Augusta gulps and runs her fingers through her lavender mane of hair, pulling some of it out. Then she becomes conscious of what she is doing, quickly moving her hands until she begins tugging at the hem of her sequin-coated blouse. "Miranda," she strengthens her voice, "It is true that you have to deal with that 'perverted, flamboyant hag again,' but I firmly believe you mustn't entitle Rosea that, lest her feelings get hurt."

"You mean her ego, Augusta, not her feelings," I correct her, putting my hands on my hips and glancing at Rosalina, Tyler, and Haymitch, who are rolling around on the floor, laughing insanely. "Really," I turn my attention back to my escort while heightening the pitch of my voice to match hers, "I firmly believe you mustn't put in a good word for Rosea as she really is a perverted, flamboyant hag."

"First!" Augusta squeals indignantly, "It's Gust to you! And second," she lets out an aggravated huff, "Rosie is a dignified lady with perfect etiquette and manners. Besides, she is much prettier than you will ever be!"

"Rosie?" By the way she flushes darkly and just about flees the room after saying this, I know she meant it in a context of love rather than friendship. I give her a bemused smile and ask innocently, "Are you quite sure you haven't fallen for Le Styliste De Rose? If so, you have chosen quite poorly, Augusta."

She throws her hands in the air in distress, muttering foul comments of the old language under her breath. "And now you know my secret, Miranda, disapproving of it as much as Rosea would if she knew. I accept that my preferences are inappropriate, so don't you tell me off! I know! I know!" Augusta's hands, having been flying everywhere at once, from her eyes to her mouth to her ears, rub her temples tiredly as she sinks into a plush loveseat. "Rosie would never… return… the feelings. To her, I am just a business partner, and she's as straight as a-"

"Gust," Rosalina appears next to me, interrupting our escort's confession. "Are you quite all right? Haven't you seen the way Rosea looks at women? Haven't you heard her declare herself the 'shortest, most lesbian stylist in the history of Panem?' You have a large chance of gaining the love of that woman if you attempt to seduce her. Flirt a bit, have fun."

Her face looks no more less dumbfounded than a tribute's a split second after they are reaped. I almost laugh, but I know it would be terrible to at a time like this, so I pretend to cough. Meanwhile, Augusta can do nothing but stutter until a serene smile alights her face, and then she faints dead away.

"Well," I look up at Rosalina after we adjust Augusta on the loveseat so it looks as if she is sleeping, "That worked well."

She giggles and replies, "Might as well get a bit more practice in before the prep teams take the lift up to our flat to retrieve us." I nod in agreement. Rosalina is referring to what we have been doing these past two hours, which is determining our angles and quizzing each other on interview questions, each exiting for a half hour with Augusta for etiquette lessons. We do the angles and quizzing together, because Alder is insistent on keeping the hell away from us, and we know each other better than Alder does, which made it easier to determine our angles. Rosalina's angle is mysterious and beautiful, Haymitch's is sarcastic and arrogant, mine is funny and confident with a touch of intelligence, and Tyler is… winging it, as far as I can tell, for he has taken up the job of interviewer instead of answering questions himself. He has asked us to temporarily call him "Caesar."

I sit back down on the floor with them, and we form a circle like before, myself next to Haymitch. He brushes his fingers against mine, and I don't pull away, as much as I feel it necessary. After all, tomorrow is the Games- tomorrow! Tomorrow!- and what if I have to kill him? But wait, I've already killed him. I got a seven in training.

"Maysilee, what is the thing you most love about the Capitol?" Tyler interrupts me from my thoughts, throwing the question at me in lightning speed. Thankfully, I have thought of this ahead of time, and so I reply smoothly.

"Well, Caesar… I have got to say, I really do love that smile of yours. Your teeth are so dazzling they just about knock me off the stage. What are your secrets?"

Tyler snorts and praises me on my comeback, turning to Haymitch, asking him a mediocre-hard question. Haymitch replies to his inquiry swiftly, and then turns to me before Tyler can address his older sister. "So, Maysilee… got someone special back home?" There is a twinkle in his eye.

Hitting him on the arm forcefully, but not hard enough to cause injury, I reply, "Haymitch, you know there is nobody back home."

His face adjusts itself into a shocked expression. "Excuse me, but did you just address me Haymitch? Sweetheart, you are mistaken. It's Caesar Flickerman."

"Only Haymitch Abernathy calls me 'sweetheart'," I retaliate, facing him fully and crossing my arms. "Except for Leonardo the trainer, but he is now far in the past."

"I suppose you're right. I am a terrible actor."

"No. I am simply far too good at seeing through façades," I say, turning back to Rosalina and Tyler. They are watching us with calculating eyes and tilted heads. Being brother and sister, their mirrored actions look very fitting and I stifle a laugh at the mutual look on their faces, as if they are experiencing something awing. "Yes, Tyler? Rosalina? What is it?"

Tyler is the first to respond. "How can you flirt just a day before the Games? Isn't that… a bit…"

Ding! We can hear the lift doors open from one of the hallways connected to the dining room, and the chattering of twelve ostentatious and cheery prep team members meets our ears, interrupting Tyler's comment. I turn to him, answering with, "I cannot, Tyler. Soon enough I'll reach my breaking point again. But it's worth it, if you would like to know," just before the first prep team member sashays through the doors of the lounge.

It is Prond, the twenty-something-year-old with auburn hair and numerous, uncountable lip rings. "What's worth it, hon? Getting prepped? Because yes, dearies- getting prepped is so worth it. You are so lucky." From behind her there are multiple shouts of agreement as all of the members file out of the doorway and grab the arms of their patients. I am surrounded by Prond and the other two, whose names I cannot remember, and their sharp nails dig into my skin.

"What happened to Gust?" Nameless Number One asks, leering at Augusta, who is still out like a light on the loveseat despite the ear-splitting blathering of the abundance of Capitol citizens.

"Don't worry about her," I reply, thinking up a quick lie while trying not to show my disgust at his leer. "We played a trick on her; hid under the couches and waited until she was literally ripping her hair out before we popped out and she fainted in shock. None of us expected that reaction and feel truly terrible about it. She'll come to soon enough and be be fine as a… as a…" I struggle to think of the term.

"A fiddle!" Prond squeals, elated at the thought of helping a tribute. "Now, honey, would you mind showing us to you and your fellow female tribute's room? She's going to be carted off to the Remake Centre, where we normally make over the tributes before the interviews. But there's simply no room left in the Remake Centre, as some of the cubicles are being remodeled, so we have to polish you up here." She looks severely disappointed, but tries to smile for my benefit. "However, we're getting the essentials that you don't have in your bathroom delivered by a few Avoxes, so we'll be good to go! You'll still look like you were all prettied up in the Remake Centre, don't you worry!"

I nod, trying to look enthusiastic, but failing miserably. Thankfully, they do not notice as they tow me out the door. I look back to see Haymitch scowling at a woman with porcupine-quill eyelashes when she tries to grip his wrist, and Tyler talking animatedly to a man whose skin is made of bright yellow fur; Rosalina is already gone from the picture, having been led off by her team a minute before. I proceed to direct them to Rosalina's and my bedroom, my prep team filling up the sudden silence with meaningless gossip.

"Excuse me," I say, interrupting Nameless Number Two from his spiel about the new tongue colouring serum (who in their right mind would want to pigment their tongue blue and green?), "But do you know who will be in the boy tribute's bedroom?" Not that it matters, but I'm still curious.

"Who else but Haymitch Abernathy?" Prond sighs dreamily. "He's a hottie, that one. Now that I think about it, he would be a great match for you." She scans me over and nods her head once. "I can just picture it- a photogenic couple if there ever was to be one! Such a shame that you're destined to be in the Games together, and such a shame if he died. Not that we're rooting for Haymitch- we're your prep team, we obviously want you to win, Maysilee!- but if you die, he is best candidate."

She goes on to tell me about the odds for each tribute, emphasizing on the popularity both Haymitch and I have gained, raving on about how perfect we'd be together. I tune it all out, disliking how she is unknowingly rubbing my feelings in my face. I sincerely hope I'm not blushing.

When they are fully set up in the bathroom, the Avoxes having delivered the supplies needed, they begin. Originally, I thought it wouldn't take so long to pretty me up again. However, although there aren't as many body scrubs, they are still as picky as usual. My eyebrows have grown out- pluck them yet again! My skin is a little rough- pile on the lotion! At one point, Nameless Number One asks me why my hair is so ratty, to which I reply, "Just wait until the arena."

"How long is this going to take?" I complain slightly, after nearly two hours of slow death via scrubbing brush.

"Not much longer, dear. It's almost four, and Rosea is supposed to get here about five. The interviews are scheduled for six, even though they are normally around seven-thirty. It's because it's the Quarter Quell this year, sweetums!" I can hear the smile in Prond's voice, even though she is standing out of my sight, tugging a brush through my dirty blonde hair for the thousandth time.

"In fact," Nameless Number Two says, "I think it's just about time for the injections. Varius, would you retrieve the syringe box from that drawer for me, please?"

Nameless Number One, or Varius as I now know him as, nods his head in compliance. He opens a drawer on the far right of the cabinets and comes up with a wooden box about the size of a chess board. Inside it are various syringes about the width and length of my pinky finger, filled with clear liquids, a sanitized needle at the end of each. "What are you injecting me with this time?" I ask warily. Last time, before the opening ceremonies, they injected me with a serum that prevented hair growth for a full month, proceeding to use the waxing method to get rid of every hair on my body except for half my eyebrows, eyelashes, and what grows from my head.

"Oh, it's nothing, Miss Maysilee," Varius said, removing one labeled 'For Women Only'. "I do need to know, have you begun menstruating and when is the approximate day it normally occurs?"

"That is private information," I say defensively.

"This serum will prevent it."

I have always hated menstruating and began when I was twelve. Twelve! Myra got it a few years later and was absolutely pleased with herself for entering into womanhood. But I've always despised that time of the month passionately and swore that if there was any way to prevent it, I would figure it out. I don't care if I can't have children. I'd rather not, lest they risk the reaping! And so, once Varius provides me a way out of the situation I will experience in a week, I snatch up the syringe and inject the liquid into a vein on my forearm.

There is no noticeable change, but I will find out if it works during the arena. What am I saying? This is Capitol medicine. Of course it works!

Prond, Varius, and Nameless Number Two stare at me in surprise. Nameless Number One recovers first. "Looks like someone's a little eager."

"You've never had to experience such dread as menstruating. Don't you talk!" I exclaim, tossing the empty syringe to the floor, ignoring the blood that is running towards my wrist from the needle puncture. "Any other injections I should know about?"

They hand me another, explaining that it is to prevent me from becoming pregnant if certain situations occur. This angers me. "Are you assuming I am going to have sex with… with… another tribute?" My prep team denies this many times and tells me "it's just protocol, you have to take it" and so I do. Their protests are calming enough so I can get out my original question: wouldn't the first serum cover what the second serum does?

"Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe extra precautions? They don't teach us this in beauty school! They do teach the scientists, which is totally discriminating, because beauty school graduates deserve to know about the serums too." Prond frets a bit until the syringes are handed to an Avox to take away, and then she seemingly forgets what we were talking about and amiably chats with Nameless Number Two about the tongue colouring yet again.

They use cotton balls to stop the bleeding from the injections and then rub a salve over that area of my skin. The holes heal over in no time at all and soon my prep team begins to work on my hair and cosmetics, making me sit on a stool in nothing but a robe, facing away from the mirror. As far as I can tell, they're applying the cosmetics in a heavy fashion- "because the cameras will be trained on you and you need to look your best"- and using a curling wand to make my hair fall in perfect ringlets. Eventually they lose me in the process of pinning up my curls, for I haven't the slightest idea what I am going to look like once this is all finished.

Rosea enters at the moment the clock strikes five, with an Avox trailing behind her, holding up a long, white bag so it doesn't touch the floor. He hangs it on a hook on the wall and leaves without making any noise, leaving Rosea in all her candy-pink glory. "Maysilee, I am just so thrilled to see you!" She screeches, running up to me and attempting to hug me without smearing any makeup or ruining my hair. "Looking as sexy as always, I see."

She stares up at me with a grin and I know exactly how to help out Augusta. "Well, have you seen Gust today? She's looking positively beautiful."

"Gust?" Rosea asks curiously. "Oh, oh, you mean your escort, Augusta? I suppose she looks nice. I don't like purple much, though." She shrugs, pushing a strip of rubber hair out of her eyes. I realise if I am to help out Augusta, this is going to take so much more work. Rosea might prefer girls over boys, but that doesn't mean she prefers Augusta over… Pales, Tyler's stylist.

"I think violet goes very well with pink," I encourage her. "Just spend some time with her. I think she'd like that. But for now, let us get to the dressing part of preparing for interviews!"

Rosea forgets Augusta instantly and squeals, "You will just love this dress! Love it. But no peeking until it's actually on you!"

I comply, crossing my fingers behind my back. There's the rustling of plastic and a few excited comments, and then someone's taking me out of the robe and slipping on my breastband, underwear, and finally, a scratchy material that I can tell will be the dress. I hate it already. They step me into high heels and spin me around, telling me to open my eyes.

I look… horrific.

The makeup is terribly done and the eyeliner has smeared to the side. The lipstick isn't even on my lips! The dress itself is pink and frilly, coated with a layer small silver stars- like something a little girl playing "princesses" would wear. My hair is beautifully done, looking golden and curled in a majestic way, but the crown perched atop it looks absolutely terrible, made of pink wire crudely wrapped around a pink headband.

This is so much worse than my opening ceremonies costume. So much worse. I look as if I am a three-year-old attempting to dress up in a fancy costume. But Prond, Varius, Nameless Number Two and Rosea look positively delighted, and are covering their mouths to suppress squeals. "What were you thinking?" I yell at them after a moment. "What the hell were you thinking?"

My words bring the whole house down. The four people in the room burst into fits of giggles, laughter, chuckling and chortling. Rosea's laughter is so loud she's practically screaming with mirth. "Oh… my… Snow… the… look… on… your… face!" She gasps out, and I am stunned.

"What were you thinking?" I ask. "Why have you ruined what could be my chance to gain sponsors?"

"We haven't ruined it!" Prond tries to control her giggling. "That's not really your outfit for the interviews."

"Then what is? Are you going to have enough time to undress and redress me?" I'm frantic now, because what if they can't do it in… say, fifteen or twenty minutes? It's already 5:08.

"Of course we will," Rosea says. "Oh, that was hilarious! A waste of time and makeup, but that look you gave us- well, no time for comments now. Varius, the cleaning wipes. Get those horrid cosmetics off her face. Prond, remove the crown. Earl, help me get her out of this dress. Don't worry, Maysilee, I'm not that bad of a stylist. I love pink so much, but this is just… too much pink!" Her exclamation about the colour of the dress makes me laugh, because nothing is too pink for Rosea.

I used to loathe my stylist, but I'm beginning to like her more, now that she's played this trick on me. Somehow, that makes her much more real, and Rosea doesn't seem very real to me, what with her pink skin, rubber hair, short stature and large, kohl-lined eyes. She is an anomaly of Panem, and anomaly of the Capitol, even, but still, Rosea is real. And I respect her for it.

In twelve minutes, they dub me perfect, and let me see myself again. It is an improvement of their trick, it is an improvement of the opening ceremonies costume, it is an improvement of casual Maysilee, and it is an improvement of dressed-up Maysilee. I look almost inhumanly beautiful. They've changed the crown on my head to a hair clip made of actual diamonds and rose quartz, not letting down the intricate bun they've done half my hair in and leaving the rest to fall down my back in flawless ringlets. The cosmetics are much more toned down so they look almost natural, my blue eyes accentuated by mauve-coloured eyeshadow, kohl, and mascara done with a light hand so it looks like I was born with eyelashes this long and thick. And the dress. It is a light pink, and it goes well with my fair skin tone. It is made of simple cotton fabric that isn't layered at all, forming a two-inch wide strap on one shoulder and angling down in such a way that it shows no cleavage, but there is no strap at all on my left shoulder. It is tied at the waist with a mauve belt, and the skirt is long and simple, ending at the middle of my shins. My nails are painted a plain coral and my one-inch heels, the highest type of heels I can walk in, are mauve as well.

I gape at myself in the mirror for a full minute before turning to Rosea, speechless. She looks pleased. "Do you like it? I tried to go for more modest than the Ceremonies, because I don't think you liked it much. But this looks really, really sexy on you."

"It exceeds my expectations," I beam, blowing off the "sexy" comment just this once. "Thank you so, so much. I don't think I can ever find the time to pay you back, since I'm… since I'm…"

She waves me off, not bothering to let me finish my sentence. "It's my job, don't worry about it! Now, one more thing. Do you have a token?"

"Y-yes. Why?"

"I need it so it can be approved by the Gamemakers."

"It's on my bedside table. The token is a golden mockingjay pin that is a family heirloom. It would mean so much to me if the Gamemakers let me wear it in the arena."

"Thank you so much," she squeals, heading to the bathroom door.

"No, Rosea," I call to her. "Thank you."

All she does when she looks back is smile pleasantly, and then she disappears through the doorway.

~~~

I walk down the hallway, heading towards the dining room. I'm supposedly not allowed to eat anything except for bread, and I can only eat bread if I tear off little pieces and consume them without anything touching my lips, so I don't ruin the cosmetics. Fine by me- I could use a little sustenance as I cannot eat at any other time until ten o'clock.

The first thing I notice when I step into the dining room is that Haymitch is there as well, and they have left his hair untouched. It's still the same mess of dark curls as always. I suppose this will help him keep up the sarcastic angle, and maybe help him pull off good-looking as well (in a rugged sort of way). He's in a suit, also. It is plain, black-and-white, and fits him wonderfully.

Alas, this assessment is from behind… I can't imagine how handsome he'd look if I faced him.

As if he can sense my desires, he turns around in his seat to glance at the door and stops short, doing a double-take. By the time his eyes can fully focus on me, he looks too shocked for words, taking me in as I walk towards him and sit down in the chair next to his. Still, Haymitch cannot speak, and his eyes are trained on my face, as if hoping to capture what I look like in a photo taken with his mind, his mouth agape and his gray irises shining with amazement. "You… you…" he stutters.

"Are beautiful, for once?"

"You are always beautiful, sweetheart. But now you are beautiful, lovely, enchanting, stunning… oh, can I please kiss you?"

I laugh. He doesn't look too bad himself. I see his stylist made him wear that silver eyeliner again, and it turns his eyes into moonlight. "They are insistent I don't touch my lips to anything… and you know that is such a bad idea, Haymitch, what with the Games just-"

"Shh," he whispers, coming close. "On the cheek, then." He leans in and kisses my cheek, his lips lingering long afterward as he murmurs to my skin, "Just forget the future and live a little, Maysilee Donner. Don't you know how much I want you?" I let out an involuntary shudder when his breath touches my face, and when Haymitch pulls away, I'm sure my blue eyes are as clouded with lust as his.

But the moment is broken when he stands up from his seat, hearing the chatter of our prep teams as they exit their rooms, having picked up most of their supplies and left it for the Avoxes to take to the Training Centre. By the time they and our stylists enter the lounge, we are sitting a decent three feet away from each other, Haymitch sipping his bowl of chicken broth and myself shoving as much bread as I can into my mouth without ruining my lipstick. I cannot get enough food in my stomach to be satisfied, because three minutes later Augusta is running through the doors of the lift with Rosalina and Tyler in tow.

Rosalina is dressed in a navy blue dress that only just meets her thighs and shows much cleavage. In fact, it seems as if we are dressed as opposites, what with her straightened hair that flows down her back and impossibly high strapped heels- I am dressed modestly whilst she is dressed provocatively- I in light pink, she in dark blue- my cosmetics natural, hers artistic. I doubt Rosalina likes this, having worn this sort of thing before to appeal to men in the past; but I do have to complement both of our stylists.

While Rosalina and I are dressed as total opposites, though, Haymitch and Tyler are clothed in what seem to be identical outfits. Black-and-white suits with black ties. The only difference is that Tyler's curly locks have been tamed and his eyes are not outlined in silver eyeliner, as Haymitch's are. If I didn't know better, I'd say that Haymitch was part of the Dark family, and I was the outsider of the group (which I am currently, as well, with my blonde hair and blue eyes).

Meanwhile, Augusta is beside herself with anxiety. "It is nearly 5:40, and the interviews begin at six! Follow me now, my tributes, or you'll all be late, late, late! It is not fabulous to be late!" And so, as not to be late, late, late, Augusta yanks me from the dinner table so quickly that I drop my seventh roll. I protest, but she is too rushed to be gentle and practically drags us all to the lift, not sighing in relief until the doors close with a Ding! and our gossiping prep teams are out of sight.

~~~

"Let us welcome… the tributes of the 50th Annual Hunger Games!" Caesar's voice booms loudly, audible even from far backstage. The crowds, of course, are even more audible, cheering loudly so the entirety of the building can hear nothing but a never-ending roar. And I am walking towards it, between Rosalina and Tyler, following a line of forty-five people that will be killing each other at this time tomorrow.

But I have to take the doom that is hanging over my head and shove it unforgivingly aside until nine o'clock, which is when the interviews end. Until then, I have to welcome the screams of the Capitolites with open arms. Finally, I have less than thirty seconds to prepare myself for this because already half of the line is out the door and onto the stage and I. Can't. Think!

If I can't think, then I have to plaster a smile onto my face and act as if I am thoroughly excited to be here. And so I do, just in time to enter the stage and prance across it in Rosalina's wake. I attempt to shield my eyes from the bright lights without looking like I am shielding my eyes from the bright lights, a nearly impossible feat that I cannot master. I am so focused on doing this that I trip and stumble a bit, clutching onto Rosalina for support but (thankfully) not falling. And even throughout all this, my smile stays in place, because it is fake, and I am as much of an actor as Haymitch Abernathy.

We sit in chairs set up in a half-circle behind two plush, white butterfly chairs, one of which Caesar occupies. I must say, his dark green hair, lips, and eyebrows contrast quite well with his pallid, cosmetic-caked skin. It suits him better than last year's colour, a bright orange that would match quite Augusta's pigmented teeth quite well. At least Caesar doesn't dye his teeth like Augusta, or annually dye his skin like his father and retired interviewer, Julius Flickerman, did. I can't imagine how unnatural he'd look then.

Capitol origins set aside, I quite like Caesar, based upon every one of his television appearances that I've watched. He's helpful and tries to make the best out of everything, able to joke around and then switch to serious instantly. I'd actually be quite excited to be interviewed by him if I weren't so nervous, and I'm looking forward to watching his and Haymitch's banter. Two professional actors- should be interesting.

Platina is first to be called up. She is dressed in a skimpy, crimson dress with an almost entirely open back. I'm sure, if I tried, I could fit the garment in an empty coffee mug. The vicious girl from One is obviously going for sexy, dangerous, and highly conceited. The angle suits her well.

Caesar asks her what she did in her private sessions, commenting on her impressive score of ten. We aren't actually supposed to say what happened in our private sessions in public, but Caesar likes trying to get information out of tributes. To everyone's shock, Platina replies, "I'm sorry, Caesar, but a girl doesn't kiss and tell."

"Which Gamemaker did you kiss?" Caesar asks, dumbfounded.

"Oh, it wasn't a Gamemaker, silly! It's just that… my axes and I have a special bond." She smiles lethally. "To tell you the truth, they can't wait to kill tomorrow, and neither can I."

Miracle doesn't do much more than blow kisses to the crowd and bend over so her cleavage practically falls out of her dress. Intron and Exon both tell Caesar that they'll win the Games, no problem, and Exon even demonstrates his strength by picking up Caesar's butterfly chair with Caesar still in it. The interviewer himself just laughs, but I can tell that he's a bit exasperated. Not all actors are perfect at concealing their true feelings.

Lethae passes by, and then Venom steps up to the chair. "Hello, Caesar," she says outright, not even waiting to address her. "I am going to become the interviewer tonight. First question: Why the hell are you bothering to interview all these dimwit idiots, like the DNA twins and Miss Big Breasts, when I'm just going to kill them all sooner or later?"

Caesar looks a bit confused. "Aren't you forming an alliance, like usual, Venom?"

"Of course, Caesar," she laughs. "But all alliances end. You should know that there have been precisely seventy-nine alliances in past forty-nine arenas, and almost half of them have failed when one tribute stabbed the other in the back." Venom giggles sickeningly. "We're all predators in the alliance, but there's always going to be the dominant predator. I am the dominant predator. And I will show you why… tomorrow."

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. It's a word I hear repeated multiple times as the rest of District Two passes by, as well as the two girls from three. Destiny, an innocent young girl with frizzy hair and glasses, tells Caesar about her family back home. Intella is sweet, humble, and makes smart comments that only those of her district can probably understand. And then there's the first boy reaped in District Three. "What is your plan for tomorrow?" Caesar asks Smoke, who is mysterious and vague to the point where no one knows what exactly he is saying.

"Tomorrow," he says, "I will escape. Escape just as the smoke escapes from the cracks of our factories back home, where we produce all of the latest technology you have here in the Capitol. I work in those factories, so I have seen the smoke, and from the smoke I have learnt how to escape."

Luther, Naiada, Siren. Siren talks of her sister Delphin's beauty and the son she will have in the wintertime, and then proceeds to show off her own beauty by twirling a bit in her turquoise dress. "It makes me feel magical," she tells Caesar. "My friend Alice Cresta would love it. She's always finding the magic in things and has the most wonderful imagination." Cleat, Frond. Anahita from Five bursts into tears in the midst of her interview, but covers it up well by saying that the Capitol is so perfect that she doesn't want to leave it. The rest of Five passes, as does Six, and I'm beginning to become supremely bored.

I don't tune in to District Seven until Pine is in the white butterfly seat, chatting with Caesar as if they are old friends. He cracks a few bad jokes that make the Capitolites in the crowd laugh anyway, and then he chortles at his own terrible witticism. I'm sure Pine will get many sponsors. Grant, Thimble. Calico from Eight tells the world about her seven siblings back home that she has to get back to. Almost every Capitol citizen is crying in sympathy. Hemmer, Bolt.

Fourteen-year-old Tess is shy and quiet. When Caesar complements her on her angelic-looking dress, she just gives a small smile and burrows further into her seat. It's only when he asks her whether or not she has a boy back home that she opens up. "Yes, in fact, I do," Tess replies simply. "His name is Swathe and before the reaping, he was teaching me how to use a scythe to cut down wheat. I cannot use one well, but it gives me a chance to survive. I will survive for you, Swathe."

Stara from Ten attempts to be alluring, and although she is beautiful, she does a poor job of playing the part. When asked what she does for a living, she answers "cleaning up the patties" outright. When Caesar further inquires what 'patties' are, she says, "cow feces." The Capitolites are utterly shocked and boo her until the buzzer rings.

Lassona is quiet and Devon fiercely protective of Willie, who is the most naïve young boy I've ever seen. Caesar asks him how he is planning to outlive those who will try to kill him, and Willie says, "There is no reason for anyone to kill me." I think it is unfortunate that he will die eventually, because he will die eventually. Nobody so positive he will survive will become a victor- it's widely known.

Hestia is cheery and likable, but it is not overdone. Caesar asks about her bleached hair, and she just strokes it fondly. "It is one way I relate to the people of the Capitol. I have always been eccentric back in my district, because I think of my hair as a way to express myself, and as I am odd, my hair is odd. But no matter how 'odd' I am, I still have a family, I still have friends, I still have a boyfriend, I still have allies, I still have skills, and I still have a chance."

Hemlock, dressed in a gown of yellow silk, is next, and Caesar immediately asks her about Hestia. "Is she your ally?"

"Of course, Caesar," Hemlock says patiently, giving him a soft smile. "It is natural for Hestia and I to be allies, as she is my older brother's girlfriend." It is a sentence that sends every Capitol citizen in the house tittering empathetically for her brother, as he is either losing his girlfriend, his sister, or both. How tragic.

Caesar questions her further about Haze, her brother, and then dives into even deeper topics. "Hemlock, Hemlock… I must say, after speaking to many of the tributes of the 50th Hunger Games, you have some tough competition. How do you stand out? How do you defeat them?"

"Oh, Caesar," she giggles. "I might not know how to defeat them personally, but I know things about them that they might not want anyone to know, and my fellow allies will aid me in surviving. I mean, seriously… I never would have thought that Platina is afraid of fire, or that Cleat is in love with Siren!" Instantly, all forty-eight tributes' heads snap toward her, some in shock and some waiting to hear more. I train my eyes on Platina and see her cursing under her breath, the rage her eyes making me glad looks cannot kill. But still, I fear for Hemlock's life, because now she has become a threat, and threats become targets.

"What else do you know, Hemlock?"

"Much more! But," she leans in, as if telling Caesar a secret, "I wouldn't want to give my fellow tributes an advantage. It's best that just my allies and I know each tribute's personal information and secrets. But I want them to know," she looks over her shoulder, eyes scanning over the rest of us, "that I know. I know everything about them and, therefore, I can win. I can come back to Haze, to my mother and father, to my best friend, Xena, and all the rest of District Eleven. Thank you."

And it's as if she's timed it perfectly, because the buzzer sounds right afterwards. Then Mendel and Till blunder their way through their interviews, making way for Rosalina to shine.

She does shine. Despite the provocativeness of her navy dress, her body fills it out well. I can practically see the Capitol men drooling over her as she perches on the edge of the white chair, crosses her legs, and smiles knowingly at Caesar, who takes this as his cue. "Rosalina, you look absolutely stunning tonight."

"Why, Caesar, thank you… however, my looks won't give me the title of 'victor.'"

"And how do you intend to become victor?"

"I don't intend. I will. But nobody knows how, except myself… not even Hemlock." This gains her a laugh from the crowd.

"I assume you have a plan, then?"

I'm sure every person in Panem is leaning forward in their seats to hear her answer. But I know Rosalina is playing the mysterious card, and so her reply is as expected: "Don't assume anything, Caesar, it will get you nowhere in life."

They continue this type of dialogue until Rosalina's time is up, and then it is my name that is being called, and I am walking forward, making sure to keep up the smile that Augusta told me "lights up my features." I absolutely hate showing my teeth when I smile, but if I am to meet the requirements of my angle, I must come off as joyful as I can, which, unfortunately, means teeth. At least mine aren't bright orange, like Augusta's.

"Maysilee, I must say Rosalina is quite stunning, but you look absolutely beautiful this evening. How do you do it?" Caesar asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

"I honestly don't know, Caesar," I comment, giggling slightly. "I've never thought of myself beautiful before. My father owns a sweet shop, you see, and compared to the bright-coloured candies, I sort of… fade into the background."

He chuckles, as does a few members of the crowd. "Well, you certainly don't now!" Exclaims Caesar, and there are shouts of agreement. "Now, on to questions… I believe I've asked many people what their favourite part of the Capitol is, but I don't think I've inquired about their least favourite part of the Capitol. Care to indulge us?"

"My least favorite part of the Capitol?" It takes me only seconds to think of a reply. "Caesar, I have to say the Capitol is exquisite, but if there's one thing I genuinely hate, it's the tomatoes."

There's a roar of laughter at this, and Caesar chortles along with the Capitolites, looking amused. "The tomatoes, folks," he repeats to the audience, shaking his head playfully, "She hates the tomatoes." Then, after a moment where he waits for the crowd to become quiet once more, he addresses me again. "Now, what do you think about your private sessions? A score of seven is extremely impressive, for an outlying district."

"I didn't meet my own expectations, which is disappointing. The reason I got a seven is confidential information, but I can honestly admit that the reason for my seven instead of, say, a nine, was because the tomatoes hate me as well. Our feelings for each other are mutual." I manage to say this all with a serious expression on my face that makes the entire audience crack up.

"It's true!" I call, turning to the section of the audience which is roped off for everyone except for the Gamemakers. At least half of them are laughing and nodding in confirmation. "Really, Caesar. Tomatoes hate me. I could walk into a room full of tomatoes and I'm positive they'd all attack me at once."

Caesar is smiling widely. "Maysilee, you are extremely amusing. I daresay you are well liked back home. Do you have siblings? Friends? A boyfriend?"

"I have a twin named Myra," I say shortly. "I love her very much, and I hope to get back to her and our best friend, Fauna, very soon."

"Anything you'd like to say to them?"

"Yes, in fact; I would like to say something to Myra," I smile, turning to look directly into the cameras. "Stay strong, no matter what, sister. I miss you." My words leave some of the audience sighing in sympathy. "And to address your previous question yet again, Caesar, no, I do not have a boyfriend back home."

"Of course you do! Admit it; someone as beautiful as you must have at least an admirer or two."

All of a sudden, I am sombre. I am unable to smile or laugh, and I can feel the waves of hurt coming on, threatening to crash over my heart. "I might," I say. "I might have an admirer. And I might have someone special. But he is not my boyfriend."

"Then what is he, then? What is his name?" Everyone is leaning forward, and I can do nothing but gaze sadly at my feet.

"Caesar," I look him directly in the eye. "I cannot tell you his name. I cannot tell you why he isn't watching this on the screens now, and I cannot tell you whether or not he will be watching the reruns when this is all over. But if he does, I want him to know what exactly he is to me."

"And that is?" Caesar looks a bit confused, but that set aside, there is nothing but gleefulness showing on his face at the knowledge of another romance. However, I do not give him a single glance. Instead, I look into the depths of the camera that is trained on me, hoping that if Haymitch lives, he will see this, and he will remember what he is to me.

"He is... he is my everything."

~~~

I cannot focus on the first bit of Tyler's interview, but from what I can tell, he does well. When I can finally lift myself out of my daze and understand what he is saying, they're about two and a half minutes in and Caesar is asking about his private sessions score. "It is miraculous. You're only, what, thirteen years old, and you tie for first place with two other girls that are five years older than you? I was extremely surprised, Tyler."

"There's nothing to be surprised about," he replies. "If there's one thing you need to know about me, it's that I can kill. I can kill anyone and everyone. I will kill anyone and everyone. Maysilee told me I could give up or I could fight, and I have chosen to fight."

The audience cheers, letting out whoops and hollers, some of the women screaming for the scrawny, thirteen-year-old boy. And then the buzzer is sounding and it is Haymitch who walks up to the stage, looking as arrogant as his angle calls for and then some. He is the last interview of the night and the crowd is probably tired, but they scream louder as he approaches. It might have something to do with how handsome he is, in a bedraggled way.

"Haymitch Abernathy!" Caesar calls jovially. "I must say, it is a pleasure to meet the boy everyone's been talking about."

"The pleasure is mine," Haymitch smirks, sitting on the edge of the white chair.

"So, Haymitch, what do you think of the Games having one hundred percent more competitors than usual?" The green-haired man asks, right off the bat.

The sixteen-year-old shrugs slightly. "I don't see that it makes much difference. They'll still be one hundred percent as stupid as usual, so I figure my odds will be roughly the same." It gets the audience laughing, and I giggle a bit as well, because he's mostly right. There are some pretty idiotic tributes. Intron, Exon, and Miracle, for instance. Admittedly, except for Platina, District One has some pretty pathetic tributes this year when it comes to the brains department. I honestly feel bad for Jacen Iridescent.

The indifferent half-smile continues to play on his lips as Caesar asks more questions, himself responding with phrases that will gain him oh so many sponsors. It hurts me to realise that Alder will not be using the sponsor donations to send Haymitch gifts in the arena, all because of my training score of seven. Just another thing to feel guilty about. I dwell in my shame until Haymitch's voice makes me snap back into focus.

"Of course I have a girl, Caesar. In fact," he leans in, "I have two."

Jaws are dropping and the audience lets out a collective gasp. I, myself, am surprised he has admitted this- because I'm sure the second girl he is talking about me, and not someone else (besides Lane)- and I am not exactly his girl, as it is terrifying to admit half a day before the Games. Actually, I am not simply surprised- I am outraged. Why has he said this, seemingly declaring himself a player in front of all of Panem? I just hope he doesn't declare who exactly these people are.

"That irresistible?" Caesar jokes.

"That irresistible," Haymitch smirks. "Wouldn't be surprised if people begin to worship me once I win the Games." And then the buzzer is ringing, Caesar is dismissing him, and we are walking quickly off the stage.

~~~

"Nice interview," I tell Haymitch once we get back to the flat and Rosalina and Tyler are in their rooms. I leak the sarcasm into my voice as I continue. "Especially loved the part about two girls. What were you thinking?"

"I was focused on making them love me," he replies, with that trademark half-smile he dons when the cameras are trained on him. "What, Maysilee, you don't love me?"

I place a hand on his chest, making sure he is looking directly into my eyes. "Haymitch," I say. "I am not your audience, nor am I your girl- although I might be your girl under different circumstances. So don't trick yourself into thinking I am either one, or it might be the death of you." I smile. "And it may very well be the death of you; after all, the Games are tomorrow morning."

"You scared?" His smile is slowly fading.

"Of course I am. Terrified. Now, if you will excuse me, I desperately need to get something to eat." This is true. I am starving, having eaten nothing but a handful of bread rolls. I could do with some lamb stew, and then a slice or two of chocolate cake. I head to the dinner table and grab a plate, beginning to dish out a bit of fruit salad, when I sense him behind me.

Turning around, I let out a squeak at how close he is: just inches away. "Maysilee," Haymitch breathes. "Can you do me a favour?"

"Yes. Anything," I say, after collecting myself.

"Tomorrow…" he leans in, whispering in my ear. "… Stay alive."

Before I can respond, he has already exited the dining room. And as much as I'd like to see those piercing gray eyes again, he doesn't look back.

~~~

"… And here is your token. It just barely passed. The Gamemakers thought it could be used as a weapon, but eventually, they decided it was too small to inflict any lasting damage." Rosea smiles, reaching up and pinning the golden mockingjay to my bright green uniform. Yes, bright green. At least, the shirt and jacket are. The pants are a deep chestnut, and the boots a sickening shade of lavender. I'm greatly anticipating what the arena will be like. In the back of my mind, I remember the book of poisons Hestia found. Does that have anything to do with these shockingly vivid colours?

I thank her for the pin, and then she starts to work on my hair. There's not much she does to secure it. She brushes my dirty blonde locks, and then takes a few pieces of hair and turns them into skinny braids that she ties with minuscule, clear hair ties. And then, Rosea is finished. "Aren't you going to put my hair up in, say, a ponytail?" I ask her, confused, because before long my hair will get extremely tangled.

"No, Maysilee. Leaving your hair down will get you tons of sponsors, I just know it." I refrain from telling her Alder won't send us any sponsored gifts.

"But…"

"No buts. I assure you that you look irresistable!" Rosea squeaks, just as a tinny female voice announces that it is time for launch.

All of the sudden, I am so terrified. I look for a way out of the Launch Room, but the door is locked, and we are underground. I stare fearfully at the circular metal plate that we are supposed to step onto, but I don't want to step on it. I don't want to go into the arena. I don't want to! "No, no, I can't, Rosea," I jabber. "I can't go into the arena, don't let them take me, oh please, Rosea!" But she is pushing me onto the circular plate and telling me good luck and that she's sure I'll win (but I am so positive I'll die today!).

And then the glass cylinder is lowering around me, and I press my hands to the glass, staring wide-eyed at my reassured-looking stylist. Will this be the last time I see her? I might have hated her the first few days, but I've come to respect her slightly. I've come to love who she is; I've come to realise what Augusta sees in her. And I don't want to let Rosea go.

But I have to, and so I take her in for the last time. Her three and a half feet of height, her hair made of pink rubber strips, her rose-coloured skin, her usual provocative, see-through dress, her nonexistent eyebrows, her pink skin, her pink tattoos, her puffy lips… everything that makes Rosea unique, scary-looking, and utterly herself.

"Goodbye," I mouth to her, and then I'm ascending into bright, white light.

~~~

*finem de capitulium quinque*


	7. 6: The Arena, Part I

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

Warning: Graphic death scenes, for those of you [crazy folk] who skip over that sort of thing.

~~~

Chapter Six: The Arena, Part I

Race, life's a race

And I am gonna win

Yes, I am gonna win

And I will light the fuse

And I'll never lose

And I choose to survive

Whatever it takes

-Survival, Muse

~~~

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let the Fiftieth Annual Hunger Games begin!"

Sixty seconds. That's all the time we get until the gong sounds; until the Hunger Games officially take a turn for the worse. Sixty seconds to survey the arena. Sixty seconds to take in your surroundings. Sixty seconds to find the general locations of items at the Cornucopia. Sixty seconds to size up some of your competition for what may be the last time. Sixty seconds to form a plan, stick to the plan, and, once the sixty seconds are over, carry out the plan.

60 seconds. The countdown has begun. The tinny female voice rings in my ears as the bright light surrounding me fades away and the arena comes into focus.

59\. The first thing that hits me is the sweet, sickly scent. Very sweet. Much too sweet, and this is coming from a girl whose father owns a candy shop. And, yes, after living in a candy shop all these years, I know what sweet smells like- sugary and real, while tickling your nose slightly. But this is an artificial sweet. It burns my nose with its very being.

58\. It isn't a pleasant smell. I absolutely hate it. And I can't place my finger on why I feel so endangered by scent alone, which scares me half to death.

57\. The arena is finally clear. I quickly distinguish the many bright, fluorescent, pastel colours. The colours that, combined with the smell, make me feel that the most treacherous thing in the Hunger Games this year will not be the tributes. They also serve a purpose in my majour headache.

56\. Blue. Bright, azure blue. That's the colour of the sky. It clashes with the puffy, unnaturally white clouds that drift around almost lazily, suspended high above us. I get the notion that they do not carry much rain.

55\. Green. Green so vibrant it hurts my eyes to look at it. The grass- that's the source of the green- looks lustrous and soft to the touch. It sways slightly in a nonexistent breeze.

54\. This puts me off. How can grass move when there is no breeze?

53\. There are dainty flowers dotting the grassy landscape. Violet, magenta, glowing pink, sunny yellow, periwinkle, orange, ruby, pale greenish-blue, white. Poppies, marigolds, impatiens, black-eyed susans, violets, cynthias, daisies, bluebells, primroses, and snapdragons. So beautiful and fragile, with velvety petals that look so soft to the touch. They seem to be giving off the artificial scent. Do not go near those flowers whenever you can help it, Maysilee.

52\. Songbirds call to each other, while soaring through the perfect sky. Large butterflies flit about, attracted to the flora. A bumblebee buzzes near me, extracting pollen from a salmon-coloured impatiens flower. Its yellow and black stripes are very prominent.

51\. The grass, the flowers, the songbirds and the butterflies and the bees. They make up a meadow. A huge, expansive meadow stretching on for an infinite amount of kilometres. It seems to never end.

50\. To my left, far (but not too far) in the distance, is a snow-capped mountain. It is massive, judging on how large it appears to be from here.

49\. Maybe it's the color of the mountain that unnerves me, a light brown tinged with an almost venomous purple; maybe it's the large, inviting caves I can see from here for tributes to hide in; maybe it's its perfect cone-like shape or the menacing way it parts the clouds; but I know I am not setting foot on that mountain.

48.To my right is a forest. It is also a ways away, but not so far that I cannot sprint the distance. The trees there are dark green against the blue sky. Most bear fruit.

47\. I focus entirely on the fruit. Each one I see is a different colour, the first one more vibrant than the next. The fruits are dangling from the branches enticingly: ripe, appetizing, and ready to be picked. If this were a normal arena, some would not be so ripened, but this is not a normal arena.

46\. Behind me is a stream. It burbles loudly, curving to the right, eventually disappearing into the forest. The water is crystalline and flows easily over a bed of smooth, polished pebbles.

45\. I take it all in. The scent, the sky, the meadow, the mountain, the forest, the stream. Why do I sense peril wherever I look? And then it clicks into place.

44\. Poison.

43\. At least, most of it. The stream is probably fine; since it seems to be the only source of water in the arena. But everything else?

42\. Poison.

41\. I look to the tribute next to me, wondering if they have discovered the secrets of the arena. I'm very near the centre of the half-circle. We are spaced closer together than normal, since there are so many of us, but not so much that a strong tribute could step off their plate, run a few metres, and then strangle a tribute to death in the first few seconds.

40\. I'm surprised to find the tribute next to me, a boy from Six, I recall, standing with his body completely relaxed and a dazed expression splayed across his face.

39\. You're in the Games! I mentally scold the boy. Get it together, idiot!

38\. But he cannot hear me.

37\. I look to my right. Different tribute. Same story.

36\. Glancing around me quickly, I realise most tributes have dreamy looks on their faces. Not the Careers; Platina, placed at the end of the half-circle, looks merciless. But Hemlock, I perceive with a pang of worry, is staring longingly at a picturesque monarch butterfly.

35\. And there's Hestia. One hand is weakly reaching up to the sky, almost as if she is attempting to touch the clouds.

34\. It breaks my heart to see Rosalina, as well. She stands with her eyes closed, completely oblivious to everything around her, breathing in and out peacefully. She doesn't seem to be aware that she's in the arena, and I want to scream at her. Wake up! We're allies! I want you to survive! This arena is poison and you have to make up a plan in the next thirty-four seconds!

33\. She cannot hear me, either. And I can't very well inform her of the dangers here without warning everyone else.

32\. I search and search, and finally I find Haymitch. He is located across from Platina, on the left side of the Cornucopia, the side of his body facing the mountain.

31\. Haymitch is awake. Thank Panem, he's awake! His gray eyes flit about. Observing wildly. Contemplating. Calculating. Just what I had hoped for.

30\. We're halfway through the sixty seconds. His eyes catch mine. We hold the gaze.

29\. One second. I stare at him in longing.

28\. Two seconds. I wish I could run over to Haymitch and fling my arms around him.

27\. Three seconds. He looks away, frowning.

26\. My eyes scan over his body once more, twice more, and then I turn away as well.

25\. Now the Cornucopia. Golden, gleaming, looking the same as always. The goodies this year are mostly packs and weapons; any food outside of the packs positioned so it will not touch the grass. Of course, that means the grass or the flowers (or perhaps both) are toxic. Ha, I think. The Gamemakers seem okay tributes dying from touching grass, but they wouldn't want to taint any good food.

24\. My eyes skirt over the weapons, finding a rack of knives. No, I don't want them, nor need them. Then, I turn to stare at the axes. Probably meant for Platina, since there are only a few of them.

23\. Spears. I need a spear. So why isn't there a spear?

22\. Why didn't the Gamemakers think to include spears?

21\. Too late now. This is bad. This is really bad. The only weapon I've practiced and have excelled at, and they don't have any!

20\. I have to settle for a pack, then. I aim for one- a good, large, sturdy-looking bag. It is bright green, which will blend in with the arena perfectly. There's plenty of food in it too, I'm sure.

19\. Keeping my eyes on the pack, I think of my family, and Fauna. I might die today, and if I do, I hope they know they didn't go unacknowledged. I remember Myra's stubborn insistence on my finding the boy of my dreams, and how picky she was about what dresses she wore. I miss her. I remember my weary father, who was kind, dutiful, and well-spoken. I miss him. I remember Fauna, and her gentleness; the way her eyes danced and how eager she was to help anyone she met. I miss her.

18\. I dwell in memories for a bit, knowing that the Games might be fast-paced this year, knowing I may not have other time to dwell.

17\. I inwardly wish them luck in life.

16\. I hope Fauna goes against the ways of the merchants and marries Hearth Everdeen, despite him being from the Seam.

15\. I hope Myra isn't torn to bits if I die, and will consider George Undersee as husband-to-be (we used to play together when we were little, and I remember well Myra's adoration for the mayor's son).

14\. I hope Father can deal with the loss of two family members (my mother and I).

13\. I think that I hope for too many things.

12\. Not much time left. I keep my attention on the green backpack.

11\. Please don't die, Tyler. No matter how close we are- which is not very close- no thirteen-year-old deserves to die today. Nobody deserves to die today, but I can't help that- someone is always killed during the bloodbath.

10\. Please don't die, Hestia. Her ability to ramble on for ages about one topic is annoying, yes, and the contrast of her hair and skin are unappealing and Capitol-like; but we are still friends. She taught me to throw a spear, and brightens my day with her humour.

9\. Please don't die, Hemlock. She's frail and fragile, but has such a strong spirit for a girl the age of twelve. She is my saviour and my friend. If she does die, I know she will be in a better place, but it will be hard for me to handle.

8\. Please don't die, Rosalina. Her episodes are quite frightening, but she's still caring, and she's still been my friend since the first night on the train. We are allies. I just hope she's not spending these last seconds sniffing the air.

7\. Please don't die, Haymitch. I think if he did, I would die too. I've known him a week and the love I hold in my heart for this boy is more than I could accumulate in a decade for Myra. Please, please, please don't die. I beg you.

6\. Six seconds left. Wasn't it sixty seconds just moments ago? Time does go by fast... too fast for my liking. Come on, Maysilee. The gong will ring soon. Prepare yourself.

5\. I tear my eyes from the pack and look to my left. Six is still trapped in his stupor. You dolt! The Games begin in five seconds!

4\. I look to my right. This boy is trying to collect himself, I see, but can't seem to awaken fully. And there is simply not enough time.

3\. I shift my gaze back to the pack. But, wait! I've lost it. Where is my pack, the green one I have specifically chosen, in the midst of the Cornucopia?

2\. Where is it? WHERE IS IT?

1\. Oh. There it is.

0\. The gong rings.

A wave of adrenaline passes over me, but I hesitate. Why is no one moving? Did I just imagine that gong, imagine the entire countdown? Is there still time? If I step off my plate, will the ground explode, the way it did when that girl from eight stepped off her plate to retrieve that little wooden token of hers in the sixteenth Games? Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a flash of movement. It's Haymitch, running like the wind, faster than a hovercraft going at full speed. He snatches up a pack. He cuts through the meadow and darts into the woods. He is safe.

And he has also made me realise: the gong has gone off. This is all the information I need. I step off my plate and sprint to the Cornucopia, searching for the green pack. But I cannot find it. Anywhere. Where did my pre-selected pack go? Haymitch took it. And what am I running towards now? Platina. She hefts a glistening silver axe. I can't stop running. The momentum is too great. I am racing towards my ultimate death.

"Hello, Twelve," she says, when I am but fifty metres away from her, trying, desperately, to slow down. "Ready to die?"

Platina's words echo around in my mind like a repetitive chant. Ready to die? Ready to die? Am I ready to die? "No," I say, finally skidding to a halt. "No, I am not ready to die."

"That makes you weak," the girl from District One spits on the ground. "The only strong tributes in the arena are the ones who can look their fate directly in the eye."

"Are you implying that the strong tributes die in the end?" She nods, smirking deviously. "And do you consider yourself a strong tribute?" She begins to affirm this, but then her composed expression slips and boiling rage radiates from her lethal figure.

"How dare you use my words against me?" She hisses, angry that I am smarter than she is, angry I have beaten her at something she might have prided herself in. "How DARE you?" And with that, she throws the axe at my chest.

It often happens that, when a weapon is thrown at you, time seems to slow down. The axe leaves her manicured hand in what is milliseconds, but seems close to a few measured breaths. The axe sailing through the air, within my line of sight, is intriguing… seemingly taking minutes to close the distance. The blade reflects the bright sunlight, making the axe glint astoundingly. Who knew that death could contain such grotesquely beautiful things?

But someone interferes. Someone jumps in front of me, in the path of the axe, knocking me backwards in the process. Someone with deep bronze skin and flowing brown hair. Someone petite. Someone who takes the hatchet for me, crumpling with the weapon sticking out of her once perfect forehead.

Hemlock. Hemlock. Hemlock is dead, is dead, is dead. Hemlock has an axe buried deep in her head. It's not me who died, it's Hemlock instead. My saviour is gone; she's dead, dead, dead.

I let out a noise between a gasp and a squeal of shocked agony, scrambling away from Hemlock's dead body and Platina's live one. The girl from One is tauntingly choosing another axe, and I keep my eyes directly on her as I crawl away. It's no use backing up- she can hit the dead centre of a target from at least sixty metres- maybe more, I'm not sure. But before my hopes are completely smashed, my hand falls upon something rough. Canvas. A pack, albeit small, made of canvas, with a wooden pole-like object attached to it. It reminds me of my purpose here (to "stay alive," as Haymitch says), and it will have to do. So, in the split second that Platina admires her cleaver, I'm jumping to my feet, grabbing the pack by a strap, and running to the forest.

A stream of frenzied yells, as well as highly explicit language, stream from Platina's mouth as I get away, having caught her off-guard. I hear an axe whistle by my ear and, just in time, duck to see it fly a couple more metres and harm a patch of phosphorescent daisies.

I tear through the carnage that is occurring around me. Dead bodies litter the grass. The red blood against the green creates an impressive but sickening contrast. Platina seems to have let me get away, because by the time I fling myself into the coverage the woods gives me, no Careers are on my tail.

Dashing through the unfamiliar forest, I dodge roots and large, prickly, maroon-coloured bushes. I narrowly avoid running into countless trees covered in succulent fruits (that I make sure to stay away from). It's only after ten minutes of extreme exertion that I stop to rest on a fallen log, the adrenaline fading away to be replaced with a surge of fatigue. However, I do exert a sigh of relief. I have made it past the bloodbath.

But Hemlock hasn't.

Grief falls upon me like a curtain of black velvet, obscuring my vision so I can only see memories of that lively, sweet young girl. Her brown eyes looking at me in concern after she saved me from Hestia's spear; her soft voice telling me that her observations gave her an advantage; rattling off all of my traits (some which I knew from the beginning, some that I had yet to discover); explaining all of the foods I didn't know during a training luncheon; handing me that tomato; smiling politely for the interviews; looking at the arena in wonder. And, finally, her unblemished forehead impaled with Platina's axe. Hemlock never had a chance- I know that now. But I let myself hope that she could at least survive past the first day, and now she's gone.

I allow myself five seconds to mourn. One. Her face flashes before my eyes. Two. A tear slides down my cheek. Three. I picture Hemlock laughing at some pointless joke, her eyes alight with joy. Four. Platina throwing the axe. Hemlock falling over, her life slipping away before my very eyes.

Five. Her soft voice tells me, "See you soon, Mays."

That's it. Five seconds. I wipe away my tears and collect myself as best I can. I put Hemlock far in the back of my mind, and unzip my pack for something to do. The contents spill out, and there are scarcely any. A small plastic bowl, coloured a deep blue. A package containing a meagre amount of dried beef. And, finally, a pouch of twenty-four darts.

Curiously, I unstrap the long wooden pole from the front of the backpack. I had no idea what it was when I snatched the pack from the ground, but now that I closely examine the object, the purpose of the darts comes clear. This is a blowgun. Just to make sure, I extract a dart from the small leather pouch they came in. I push it carefully in one end of the blowgun and bring it up to my lips. I inhale through my nose, and then exhale in a puff of air.

The dart flies out the end, but only a few feet. I laugh to myself. It seems that I have come out of the Cornucopia with a weapon, after all, and one better than I'd hoped for. All I need now is practice.

But how am I supposed to defend myself with a dart?

I grumble to myself as I stare at the (now deemed worthless) blowgun. These darts are a decent size, so it is possible to kill a small rabbit if you, say, hit it through the eye. But against tributes? To think that I could inflict any damage at all with this useless weapon is preposterous!

Annoyed, I bend down to pick up the used dart, but find that the point has been constructed to automatically detach itself from the shaft once the dart buries itself into a material (as in flesh… or dirt, in which the point has entered just now). Basically, these are single-use darts. I mentally curse my luck today as I toss the useless shaft of the dart to the ground, strapping the blowgun to the front of my pack and stuffing my supplies inside. Then I throw on the pack, easily when you consider its light weight, and decide to keep on moving.

~~~

I scratch at my hands. For the past few minutes, they have grown terribly itchy. Looking down at them, it is clear why: the skin is a bright, irritated red, signifying that there was some sort of toxin in the grass I landed in during the bloodbath. Not strong enough to ail me immensely, but contaminated enough to induce extreme aggravation. Besides, it's clear Alder won't bother to send any cream to apply to my hands… not that I have any sponsors. Who would want to sponsor the average girl from Twelve? Nobody.

I will have to bear the itchiness of this odd rash for as long as it continues to remain on my hands.

Wonderful.

~~~

Boom. The cannon startles me. I almost leap backwards into a tree.

Boom. The bloodbath is over, of course. And an awfully long bloodbath it was. The Careers seem to have dragged the deaths out as long as possible. Or maybe, they did not clear out fast enough.

Boom. Boom. Boom. It saddens me to think that one of these cannons is for Hemlock. And possibly Tyler, or Rosalina, or Hestia. Haymitch is safe, considering his quick getaway once the gong sounded. But there's no way to know the identities of these tributes until tonight, when the anthem plays and the dead's faces are shown in the sky.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom. How many are there? Boom. That's eleven. Boom. Twelve. Boom, boom, boom. I'm beginning to think that the cannons will never end, and that i am the winner of these dreadful Games.

Boom. Boom. Seventeen. Boom. Eighteen.

Silence.

Eighteen. Eighteen dead, thirty tributes left, twenty-nine more to go. There has never been a larger bloodbath in the Hunger Games. And although the outcome was somewhat predictable, based on the number of tributes this year, it is still jarring to the mind. Almost half of us are dead, and it is only the first day.

I keep walking.

~~~

Eventually, I come across a stream. It must have branched off of the larger river I saw before the gong rang. It is a good thing that I have found a source of water, because I am thirsty after sprinting so far. The clear water calls to me, burbling a melodic tune as it flows amongst the rocks and pebbles. I reach into my pack and extract the plastic bowl the Gamemakers provided me with. Next, I lean down and dip it into the water, bringing the bowl up to my lips.

A rustling comes from somewhere across the stream, as well as the murmuring of multiple voices. As I jump in surprise, the water sloshes out the side of the bowl facing opposite from me. A good thing, too, because when the liquid spills onto the ground, a plant growing between two rocks becomes its victim. There is an audible sizzle as the small weed crumbles to ashes. I stare in shock.

There is another rustle, louder this time. I hear someone hiss at another to be quiet, and following this I empty out the acid water as quickly as I can and scurry back into the forest, holding my empty bowl by the tips of my fingers. I dive into a bush and am able to conceal myself at the last minute. Peeking through a gap between a couple of tiny branches, I see that had I hid myself from view a second later, the two tributes would have discovered me.

It is a boy and a girl, from District Seven. I recognize one of them- the boy, whose name is Pine. He and I rode the same lift on our first day of training, and I vaguely remember him and one of his female district partners, chattering on about this and that. Alas, that district partner, Harpin was her name, is not the girl in front of me now.

"Thank Panem. I'm so thirsty," Pine exclaims, upon discovery of the stream. The girl nods in reply. She has fiery red hair done up in two stiff braids, and from her distinct appearance, I feel that I should know her name. Unfortunately, she has done well in blending in with the other tributes (or maybe I simply looked over her, thinking she was lottle to no competition), and I know nothing about her personality or skills.

The two allies sit on a larger rock and stare at the water. Even though Pine did confess his thirst, neither moves to take a drink. Instead, they are content to enjoy the view. I wonder how long they will stay here. Hopefully no too long, because my legs are starting to cramp from staying in this position for a few minutes of time.

Suddenly, Pine speaks. "Do you miss them?" He says, out of the blue.

"No," the other replies sharply. "It's good to be rid of them. Grant was an arrogant idiot who tried countless times get in my pants, with no success. Harpin was much too naïve for seventeen years old, and she could never shut up! I don't know what you ever saw in her."

I think her words are extremely harsh, but Pine must be used to her biting comments, because he only winces slightly. "Oh." Is his soft reply.

"I'm sorry," the girl apologizes quickly, in a softer tone. "I didn't mean it." But I know she did. The lie is effortlessly detectible.

I watch as she rips a blade of grass from its place growing between a couple stones. She throws it into the stream when Pine is staring at his feet. A wide grin splits her face when it is reduced to ashes, which are swept away instantly.

"Hey, Pine. Aren't you thirsty?" There is a smirk in her voice as she extracts a bowl from her pack, identical to mine except for this bowl is a vibrant red colour. Then, careful not to touch the water, she reaches down and fills the bowl, handing it to her district partner.

No. I don't want to watch this. But I cannot pry my eyes away as he accepts it gratefully. If only Pine knew. And now he is going to die at the hands of his deceptive, corrupt, evil district partner. How dare she?

"Yeah. Thanks, Gracen," he smiles.

But she does not smile back and throw out a sickeningly untruthful reply. Instead, this Gracen goes into a fit of rage. "I told you not to call me that! Last name. Call me by my last name."

"Fine, Blaze," Pine rolls his eyes and brings the bowl to his lips. "Don't throw a tantrum on me. I'm just trying to be polite."

I want to scream at him. I want to yell at him. I want to laugh at the cruel irony of mistaken trust, and I want to cry at the innocent way he tips back his head and takes a large swallow of the acid water. I want to fall into hysterics. But the shock of it is too great and I cannot force myself to close my eyes, or even blink. I can just watch, horrified beyond any horror I've ever experienced before, as Pine's eyes widen and the bowl drops from his hands, which clutch at his throat.

It's terrible. I cannot believe it, and I cannot turn my head. Not when he falls to the ground, not when he chokes and screams in agony, not when he turns his accusing eyes on Gracen, not when his throat starts to disintegrate little by little. His murderer, with the fiery red hair, berates him the entire time. "Pine," she says mercilessly, towering over his hunched figure, "politeness holds no place in these Games. Tributes can deceive and kill and win, or they can trust and love and die." She smirks. "I was always going to get rid of you in the end, so consider it lucky that I gave you a relatively short, albeit painful death. Sleep well, Piney Boy." And then she throws back her head and laughs, laughs, laughs. A laugh that leaves her clutching her sides in mirth, but is cruel to all ears that hear it.

Pine's cannon booms. His neck has completely disintegrated, the acid eating at him from the inside out. It's a gruesome sight that I can finally look away from- I can't even imagine what his loved ones are thinking. However, the only thing I can bring myself to look to is Gracen, who has (of course) busied herself with the daunting task of removing Pine's intact pack from his motionless body.

She catches me off guard when her oddly pale-coloured eyes find mine, and hold. I panic slightly as she calls, "Don't you know it's rude to stare, Twelve?"

Laughing again, she continues while I stay in my crouched position, paralyzed and terrified. "I have no weapon. I cannot force feed you acid without getting any on myself. So let me strike a deal with you," Gracen says, and I do not respond. Instead, I wait for her last words, and they chill me to the bone.

"Final two, you and me. You come out of hiding willingly, and I'll give you a quick death. You remain undercover, I hunt you down and chop you to pieces, little by little, for hours and hours, until you die. Your decision."

Grinning maniacally, she turns her back toward me, calling over he shoulder, "Now, run, Twelve! Run like a mouse scampers from a great eagle. The eagle will let you go, but she'll find the mouse again in due time. So run! Run away! Run away from the Blaze!" She sprints out of sight, cackling the entire way.

I don't move for what seems like an eternity. Soon, two hovercrafts materialise out of nowhere and giant metal claws extend from their undersides. One of the claws collect Pine's body, and one collects his head. The sight is enough to put me over the edge. I do the only thing I can do: turn and throw up whatever substance I had left in my stomach.

Gracen Blaze truly is insane. And I am not mentally fit enough to stay strong throughout these Games. Both of which may pose to be a problem.

~~~

Boom. A cannon sounds and I pause. I wonder whom it's for. Thankfully, I have the sense that it's nobody I know.

I continue to lope through the forest at a steady pace.

~~~

I'm hungry. I'm thirsty. My hands itch like hell. But I keep on heading in the opposite direction of the snow-capped mountain, which still doesn't cease to disturb me. Every once in a while, I'll reach a stream or a spring, and I'll avoid that too. But there is still poison and acid and danger; and any or all of these things surround me with each step I take. The fruits still stay suspended over my head. The river and the streams and springs still sing to me from their various locations. And I wonder which thing I will be driven mad from first… fear of tributes, loneliness, or the ever-present, enticingly disguised contamination of this arena?

~~~

Eventually, it begins to grow dark. The sounds of the nighttime forest awaken. Crickets chirp, owls hoot to each other every minute or so, and the noise of distant acid water on smoothed pebbles puts me at peace, a thing that is very hard to achieve in a place such as this. Alas, I cannot fully relax, for there is always a possibility that I could be attacked from behind by a rogue tribute, angry possum-mutt, or an imaginary, fiendish pear tree.

There is not too much for me to do in the last rays of light. My main focus is to construct some sort of shelter; and so I do. Although I know how to climb a tree, I do not want to risk falling off a branch in the midst of slumber, so I decide the ground will fit my requirements. After about fifteen minutes of thorough searching, I come across a perfect little alcove in which a tree's base is obscured by shrubbery that is unlike the thorn bushes I spotted on the outskirts of the forest.

Before I proceed to enter the shelter of the shrubs, I indulge myself with a single beef strip from my pack. It satisfies my growling stomach only the slightest bit. Although I originally thought that if I ate plenty in the Capitol, I would be able to live longer without food in the arena, I am starting to think that that was a faulty idea. Compared to the amount of food I consumed in the Capitol, my diet now consists of virtually nothing. It will take time to get used to the gnawing hunger that I haven't experienced before (although living in District Twelve was not all the best, my father earned enough so that we never went hungry for long).

I laugh to myself thoughtfully as I finish off my beef strip. So this is why they call it the Hunger Games. Not because the tributes face starvation after a week or so; but because the Capitol feeds them vast amounts and then, once they enter the arena, their bodies, used to the luxuries, grow hungry even in the first days of the Games.

I really am regretting eating those two slices of chocolate cake after the interviews. Not that there's any left, having thrown up all of the contents earlier today.

Now, having reached my limit of food, I replace the contents of the pack and crawl in between two bushes. It's a tight fit in the niche, and not at all comfortable despite the use of my pack for a pillow, but eventually I have camouflaged myself well whilst still able to see the sky when the anthem plays.

Slowly, I let my guard down. Even more slowly, I fall asleep. Not that it is a relief- nightmares plague me from the moment I lose consciousness. But the fact that I can sleep is miraculous, because not many can achieve it on the first night of the arena, immersed in a sense of foreboding.

For once, in this arena, I don't feel overpowering fear. Yes, it's there. But it's as if this shrubbery protects me from the demonic figures of the outside world. It provides me with a sense of security that shouldn't feel so safe. After all, it's faulty security. The shrubbery is made of leaves and twigs, for Panem's sake! But it's nice to feel safe, and I let the false safety sing me to sleep.

~~~

I wake up, not much later, to the anthem playing. The Capitol's seal flashes in the sky, showing us that the Capitol is whom controls these Games... as if we don't already know. There's no one else to take credit of the creation of this grim arena.

Once the anthem has ended, the faces of the dead appear in the sky. Under each picture is not the name of the tribute, but their district, as if we are nameless characters in some horrible reality television show. Which we are. No surprise there.

First to show is a young girl with frizzy raven hair and small, wire glasses that take up the majourity of her face. She is from District Three, which means the tributes from One and Two are all still alive and breathing. It does seem that her fellow partners have survived, though.

The next comes a surprise. Siren Faith, from District Four. The beauty who was scared of water and talked to much. The woman who will never see her yet-to-be-born nephew. Somehow, the girl with the wavy sienna hair and wide turquoise eyes, the Career's weapon to abundant sponsorships, has died. And while my hunger was not satisfied with a single beef strip, my loathing for the Careers that fueled my wishing for their deaths is satisfied by the passing of one of their most important assets.

Liner and Tricia from District Five are dead, and District Six has been completely obliterated from the Games. Harpin and Grant from Seven appear, and so does Pine, whom I feel a pang of grief for. Two from Eight, three from Nine, and seductive Stara Canther from Ten. Mendel and Till from Eleven, and then finally, Hemlock. Beautiful Hemlock, with a faint smile on her lips and her hair cascading around her slim shoulders. And then, she is gone. The anthem plays once more.

Hestia lives. Rosalina lives. Tyler lives. Haymitch lives. Haymitch… how are you faring? For the moment, my greatest wish is to be mentally telepathic. How dearly I want to converse with a friend. But the moment passes, as all moments do, and I fall back into fitful slumber.

~~~

I drift in and out of sleep. After a while, the nightmares fade and happy thoughts of home enter my dreams. Getting a package of dark chocolate truffles on November the second, my birthday. Racing Myra down the cobblestone street that runs through the merchant part of the district. Getting complimented by Benjamin Cartwright on the dress I wore to the graduation ceremony in year six. Simple things that make me happy.

When I wake up fully, with the good memories on my mind, I instantly think that I am home. The Games were all a bad dream. Myra was mad at me, so I slept outside. Now it's time to get up and slip upstairs to get ready for the day. Right?

Not right. I'm still nestled uncomfortably in the middle of a clump of bushes. I'm in the Hunger Games, and it's morning; around nine o'clock, I think. And I need to get up, now. There is much to do before I shall have to set off again, walking through the deadly wilderness that appears utopian.

Once I roll out of the bushes, effectively flattening them, I retrieve my blowgun from the front of my pack and contemplate how to create a useful weapon out of it. It is too short to use as a defensive staff, and I can't make a spear out of it because I don't have a knife or a rock that could be used to sharpen one end. The only way this blowgun can be a weapon is if its purpose is put to use… which is, to propel darts at worthy targets.

So, if I cannot manipulate the blowgun in a convenient way, then I will have to focus on the darts themselves. Dumping them out of the pouch they came in, I examine them. Each is about the size of my index finger, with colorful fletching, skinny wooden shafts, and sharp metal tips that I don't dare pull on lest they fall off, rendering the darts ineffective. They cannot injure, they cannot kill. The largest effect they could have would to draw blood, which would coat the tips, and…

Coat the tips! Maysilee, you are such an idiot!

What are these? Darts. Where am I? The arena. What is the arena full of? Poison. What can I coat the tips of these darts in? Poison. Aha.

Even though I have to reprimand myself harshly for laughing at the thought of finally being able to harm someone, I do laugh anyway. Not in a gleefully malicious manner, but in realisation of something that eluded me previously. Following this, I glance around me and leap over to a patch of innocent-looking pastel flowers.

Holding my breath so as not to inhale their scent, which I'm sure will do something damaging to my body, I lean down to examine the flowers. Now, under close inspection, I see that there is some sort of liquid coating them that could be dew, but is probably a poison of some kind. Quickly, I retrieve my darts and dip half of them into the substance, careful not to touch the points after having done this. Next, I locate a shrub adorned with supposedly safe berries, pluck a few, and release them so they fall to the ground. After stomping on them with the heel of my boot, I lean down and repeat the same process with the other half of the darts. Satisfied, I return back to my blowgun.

I give myself ten darts maximum for practice. Loading my blowgun with the first one, I aim at the trunk of a tree about ten metres away from me and inhale through my nose. Exhaling in a forced puff of air, the dart flies out the other end, flying two pathetic metres until it drops to the ground. I sigh. Nine more darts left. Hopefully, I can get the hang of it by then.

One, two, three, four, five more darts wasted. Each time, I get the teeniest bit further, but not even close to ten metres. I'm starting to get light-headed. So I promise myself one more… if I can make my goal, I'll keep practicing, and if I don't, I'll call it quits and save the last three for later on. I load the dart into the blowgun, bring the weapon up to my lips, tilt the weapon a little higher than usual, inhale, and then exhale as hard and as fast as I can. To my instantaneous surprise, the dart sails through the air, past the tree, and hits the tree behind it, a good fifteen metres away from where I am standing.

Now, it is clear to me that if I am to use this blowgun, my lungs are going to go through a special kind of torture. It will be worth it, though, in the end.

In two more shots, I think I have the basics of aiming and calculating the correct amount of breath per distance. I'm very light-headed now, but I have one dart left. I decide to discover if I can kill with this weapon, and for that, I have to move to live prey.

I sit, silent and stealthily, with the blowgun loaded but not yet pressed to my lips. My eyes dart everywhere, looking for movement. Finally, a small rabbit leaps out of a bush a metre from me, pausing to sniff at the ground. This is my chance, for the animal is not moving. I take careful aim, inhale, and blow with all the strength I can muster. The dart comes in contact with the rabbit seconds later, and I have to turn away as the creature goes through noticeable spasms almost instantly.

Once I'm sure it's dead, I venture over to the carcass. I caught it in its foreleg, and the poison worked much faster than I thought it would. My stomach growls as I look at the rabbit, but than I realize I cannot eat it bbecause then the poison may get into my body as well. Disappointed, but pleased that I can finally protect myself with my blowgun, I reward myself with a strip of dried beef.

~~~

But the dried beef is salty. And, thirty minutes later, my tongue feels remarkably dry as I trek through the never-ending forest. I need water, and food that does not contain anything that will contribute to my thirst.

Suddenly, I realise that the Cornucopia could still have leftover supplies, including water, if the Careers haven't taken it all. This entire time I've been heading in a diagonal, away from the snow-capped mountain, the meadow, and the Cornucopia… when after all, I probably should have stayed near the Cornucopia in the first place. Curse it all! Maybe I can keep traveling in the same direction I have been for at least three quarters of a day now- but eventually, I will die of lack of supplies. I have to turn back. I have no choice.

I roll my eyes and turn on my heel, huffing loudly. "Stupid, stupid," I mutter to myself. My plan to get far away from the mountain and the Cornucopia could have worked if I hadn't hesitated at the gong and snatched the pack that Haymitch currently has. But now I have a pitiful pack containing a bowl, dried beef, and darts: being respectively empty, salty, and poisonous.

As I begin to walk back the way I came, I pluck a luscious fruit from one of the trees, examining it. I'm sure the cameras are trained on me now, thinking that my cannon will fire at any moment. I'm not that much of an idiot… if you think I am, then you are. Instead of biting into it like someone in a haze of hunger would, I dropkick it into the trees, and then burst out laughing when I imagine the shocked faces of the Gamemakers. It feels good to laugh, even though it sounds a touch hysterical… which is why I pluck another fruit and dropkick it. Again. And again. And again. Laughing the entire time.

If I'm not going mad, I don't know what I am.

~~~

Boom. I've been walking a very long time when the cannon fires. Through the canopy, the sun is high in the sky. I think it's a few hours after noon. I am very hungry, and I am very thirsty. When I allow myself two beef strips, my stomach only barely thanks me, and then my tongue suffers from the salinity. The cannon provides a nice distraction for a bit, despite my continuous scolding at myself for thinking this.

I play a little game with myself. Who has died? I try and look through the fruit-bearing trees to see if I can find the hovercraft that will retrieve the body, but the foliage is too thick. No clues, then. Hmm. My gut says it isn't Haymitch, Hestia, Rosalina, or Tyler- and it would be preposterous for another Career to have died. Gracen, in her state of insanity, doesn't seem like a good candidate, either. All that is left are three tributes from District Three, three tributes from District Ten, two tributes from Five, Calico and Bolt from Eight, and little Tess from District Nine.

All of the sudden, there is a scream. A little too late, I think. It is a boy's scream, and following it is a name repeated multiple times. "Tellie! Tellie! Wake up, Tellie!" But I assume she doesn't wake up, for it was probably her cannon, and it's not long after that whatever she died from, he dies from too. Boom.

Tellie. I try to remember the name from the list of leftover tributes I have provided myself with. The girl from Ten (not Stara- she is dead) is named Lassona. How Tellie would originate from that name is beyond me. That leaves only the girl from Three or the girl from Five. What was the girl from Three's name?… Intella, right? Yes. Intella Gently, whom could have easily chosen the nickname "Tellie." And her partner was probably that tall, lanky boy who had a lot of metal (braces, I think they were called) on his teeth. Now they are both dead, dead, dead.

Dead like little Hemlock, with an axe in her head. I wish that axe killed me instead. But now I'm walking away, looking for water and bread. Not mourning for Hemlock, who is dead, dead, dead.

I feel guilty for not keeping Hemlock on my mind, but I have to move on. I have to move on from all the death. It's a wonder it's not driving me mad. Maybe it already is. I think it already is. I need someone to form an alliance with, so they can talk to me, and keep me from drifting away from the firm ground that is sanity, like a balloon. I need to stop reminding myself of Hemlock, need to not think of Pine, need to forget about the little game I have created to identify dead tributes. And I do. For a while.

~~~

That is, until there are more screams. They come from the mountain, and I have a feeling that the Careers have set up camp there, for a while. Good- I'll have access to the Cornucopia. And also bad- because a tribute is dying. The screams are long and drawn out, and with their help, my identification-of-tributes game is easier. It's little Anahita from District Five. Their district is notorious for their "Pacific Northwest" accent, and is the smallest bit distinguishable from the screams. Not that I know what "Pacific Northwest" means.

By the time her screams are ultimately cut off by the boom of a cannon, I am very close to the Cornucopia, and too close to the mountain for comfort. I've gotten used to the sickly-sweet smell of the forest, but as I approach the meadow, I am hit with the smell again. The smell of the meadow is obviously more pungent than it is in the woods. I don't know how I could bear to stay in the meadow at all, like the Careers probably did the first night- in tents, of course, not on the grass itself, for they'd develop the same rash that is making my palms so itchy.

The trees begin to thin out, and vibrant, lime-green grass is making its appearance. I shudder at the sight of it and scratch at my hands some more, cursing the grass internally while hoping that there is some sort of cream or paste at the Cornucopia to relieve the itchiness. If this goes on much longer, my hands will begin to bleed!

Now, at the edge of the tree line, I survey the area. The Cornucopia isn't too far off- just about two hundred metres away. I don't see any movement, besides the gigantic butterflies and bumblebees that flit about, and a few songbirds that drift lazily in the nonexistent breeze. The Careers are still on the mountain, not likely to return to the meadow for hours, if not days. All clear. I run in the direction of the gleaming piece of golden metal.

I'm about a hundred and fifty metres in when I spy something lying in the grass. It's the body of a boy. At first, I think he's dead… but why hasn't he been picked up by a hovercraft, if he's dead? And where was his cannon? On closer inspection, though, I realize he isn't dead, but unconscious. His features aren't easily distinguishable, because he is covered in small lumps, which are naturally shrouded in a deep red rash from contact with the grass. As he lies there, he mutters to himself, and shouts out a few times, while fondling the handle of a huge sword that is situated by his side. With the swollen lumps and rash, I cannot figure out who he is, but I can tell he is a Career.

Sure he's not going to wake up anytime soon, I veer around his unconscious body and continue to sprint toward the Cornucopia. Finally, I'm there, and I am elated to see a few items scattered around the mouth. There's probably more inside, too, but I cannot see into the mouth yet, as I have been running at the sculpture from the side.

I stoop and pick up a small loaf of bread wrapped in plastic, careful not to touch the grass. Then I turn into the mouth of the Cornucopia, letting the shade engulf me, ready to wrestle food out of the remains of the goodies in the company of nobody but myself. However, I am not alone. Two figures are rifling through the supplies, and I cannot make them out in the shadows. Instantly, I lift my blowgun to my lips.

"Who's there?" One of the figures says, as she turns around and stares at me, startled. I train my weapon on her, but I recognize the voice. That's a good voice, right? Yes… it's… it's…

"Hestia!" I exclaim, after lowering my blowgun. "Oh, it's nice to see someone who won't murder me." I train my eyes on the other figure, who is trying to cower behind a crate. "And you are?" I ask warily, but doubting it's anyone harmful.

Hestia approaches me, dropping the sack of apples in her hands and hugging me, with little regard for the blowgun at my side. I hug her back, even though I'm not one for cuddliness- especially in the Games. "That's Tess," she whispers in my ear. "From Nine. She and I aren't allies or anything… I came down here to get more supplies, and she had the same idea. Scared the wits out of each other. But we've promised that whenever we meet, we'll just walk away again. I would make an alliance, but…" she shakes her head. "Tess doesn't seem to trust me much. She doesn't trust anyone, probably. Scared we'll all stab her in the back.

I stare at Hestia, my brain processing her words. She sounds much more mature than she was at the Training Centre. These Games have changed her, even in the day and a half we've spent in the arena. It's almost sad. "Okay," I say, nodding to her, and then staring at Tess, who still peeks at me from behind the crate. "It's okay, Tess. I'm a friend, like Hestia. I've simply come here to get more supplies, like you, and afterwards we can go our separate ways. Sound good?"

I can barely hear her soft reply. "Yes," she says in a shaky voice, and then shyly steps away from the crate, bending to collect a small first aid kit from the ground and stuffing it in a large pack that hangs by her side. It is so massive that it looks to be twice her weight and twice her height. How the girl will carry it around is beyond me.

After that, we work in silence. I retrieve a lavender-coloured pack that isn't very big, but larger than the one I own, and empty my supplies into it. I also store two loaves of bread inside, a few packs of dried fruit, bandages, rope I'll probably have no use for, a knife I hope I never have to use, and a blanket that the Careers must have accidentally overlooked, for it is quite miraculous- it blends in to whatever background it is sat on. Like a chameleon-blanket... or I suppose it could be called a camouflage blanket. Yes- I like that name- for if I wrap myself well in it, it will serve as wonderful camouflage.

I also, out of necessity, grab a large tube from the ground. On it is a label pronouncing "Itch Cream," and I give out a small squeal of delight. Instantly, I open it and rub the cream on my irritated hands. The relief comes immediately and I all but kiss the tube before stuffing it in my pack. I also find all the water bottles I can, but to my great disappointment, they are empty. I wonder how we will get water, if the river, streams, and springs are all contaminated. Possibly the rain? After searching even more thoroughly for water, I decide that rain will be my saviour, whenever it comes. Doesn't seem like that will occur anytime soon: looking outside of the Cornucopia, I see that the clouds are as white and puffy as ever.

We all finish gathering supplies about the same time. Tess makes a quick exit into the trees, but Hestia and I hang around the mouth of the Cornucopia, talking. I ask her if she's seen anyone besides Tess, and she answers that yes, she has… glimpses of the Careers while spying on them, and she also had a run-in with Calico, from District Eight, who just glanced at her and then pretended she hadn't seen Hestia. "What about you?" She asks.

"I've been lucky. Nobody except you and Tess, and that boy on the ground… he's a Career, correct?"

"Yes. I think that's Frond. Ya know, the kid my age, but from Four, who has a talent for swords?" I nod, staring at the small lump on the ground fifty metres away. Poor kid.

We cry together over Hemlock, although I don't tell Hestia she took the axe for me. I feel so terrible, as the cleaver was meant for me, and me only… not Hemlock who is dead with an axe in her head. I ask where Hestia's been hiding out and she tells me about a little cave she found on the mountain. She also tells me that she saw Rosalina run into the woods during the bloodbath, about a minute before I did, alone. "Maybe we could form an alliance, like we were going to do before the Games, and try to find Rosalina," I offer, hoping she will agree.

Hestia shakes her head. "I don't know. I really like my cave. I just don't feel safe without it, you know? The forest has so many poisonous fruits and nuts and berries and the river water is…"

"Acid. I know. I saw the boy from Seven drink," I say, shuddering at the memory. "How did you figure it out?"

"Well, you know how the river runs past the mountain? I traveled there when I got thirsty, and since I'm not stupid, I touched it with the tip of my finger. It hurt so much," she says, showing me the tip of her index finger, which is charred black. "I figured I shouldn't drink it. Then, I went to the woods this morning to get something to quench my thirst… berries or something… and I saw the girl from Three eat one of the fruits. And then her partner. It was horrifying. I decided to gather supplies at the Cornucopia, and then not leave my cave ever again. As much as I would love to have an alliance, I don't want to go into the forest."

My heart sinks to my stomach, but I shrug my shoulders. "Well, I guess an alliance is out. I will not go to that mountain. Ever."

"Why?" Hestia asks curiously.

"I'm getting bad vibes," I reply. "It seems too safe to be in this arena. Its caves lure tributes in, invite them to make a home there. Its color is the most sickening purple I've ever seen."

"Oh," she laughs. "I think you're mistaken. Well, if you will risk the woods, then I will risk the mountain. Let's see who survives the longest."

"Deal," I say. We shake hands, and I tuck my hair behind my ears, ready to leave. I hoist the lavender pack so the straps fall over my shoulders, and turn to say goodbye to Hestia, but I back away in shock as I see she is holding a sharp knife in her hand. "What are you doing?" I shriek, eyes widening.

"Calm down!" Hestia laughs, putting her hands in the air to perform a surrendering motion- except it doesn't work so well, as she's still holding the knife. "I'm not going to kill you, Mays. I just had an idea. You know how every tribute fears Platina, the girl from One, right? Well, your hair colour and her hair colour look pretty alike, from a distance. I just thought, since your stylist idiotically left your hair down, that maybe you could style it to look like Platina's. Then, if a tribute saw you, they'd run away in fright."

I raise an eyebrow, fear of the knife gone, considering Hestia's logic. "I suppose you're right," I say, and then grab at the locks of my dirty blonde hair. I'm not sure I want to part with it.

She looks at me in sympathy. "You don't have to do it, you know. I mean, it was just an idea…"

I grit my teeth. Time to man up, Maysilee. "Just do it," I mutter, and she circles around me, standing at my back. Hestia carefully gathers my hair- braided pieces and all- up so it forms what would be a ponytail if I had a hair band, and positions the knife underneath it. "Are you sure? Last chance to back out," she says.

"I'm sure! Now hurry up before a tribute that can actually use a weapon comes along and kills us!"

This makes her shut up, and she begins to move her knife against my hair, hacking it off little by little. My head tingles sharply as she yanks at it, but I don't make a sound as my hair is cut off. When she's finally done, she shows me the bundle of hair she clutches in her grasp, and I let out a tiny gasp. It is so odd. My hand drifts up to the ends of my hair, which is shorter in the back (reaching the top of my neck) and longer in the front (about an inch past my shoulders). I've never cut so much of my hair off at one time before, and my head feels oddly bare without the weight of my hair pulling it down.

"Do you want to keep it?" Hestia asks, amused.

"Don't laugh!" I say, grabbing it from her and throwing it to the grass. I watch as it sizzles, and begins to disintegrate. Not something I expected- but if skin develops a rash when coming in contact with the poisonous grass, then it makes sense for hair to burn, albeit very slowly.

"I'm not laughing," she says, but I know she is because her lips twitch. "It's just, I've never had much of a connection with my hair. I do like it, but it's like a part of my clothing- something I can change every day without worrying about it." She touches her bleached-blonde locks, which are put up in a very sensible high ponytail. "If it makes you feel any better," she addresses me, "the short style suits you."

"Does it?" I run my fingers through my hair, and it's almost as if a little bit of my heart breaks every time they stop at my shoulders.

"Yeah," Hestia smiles sadly. "I think we'd better go. If the Careers see us from the mountain…" She trails off, but I know very well what will happen if they do. Experience an early death. Wouldn't want that, of course.

"Good-bye, Hestia, and good luck," I say, hugging her one last time.

"Last offer to join me in my cave," she says hopefully.

"Nah," I laugh. "Gotta go find Rosalina. And if this is the last time I ever talk to you, well, thanks for throwing that spear at me on the first day of training."

"Of course!" She shouts, and we are already fifteen metres away from each other. "Thanks for running onto the range!"

"Anytime!" I call back, sprinting away. I'm laughing and crying by the time I enter the woods again. Well, I think, at least Hestia's okay.

Can't help feeling that that won't last long.

~~~

*finis de capitulum sex*


	8. 7: The Arena, Part II

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

Warning: Graphic death scenes

~~~

Chapter Seven: The Arena, Part II

Lost and insecure

You found me, you found me

Lyin' on the floor

Surrounded, surrounded

Why'd you have to wait?

Where were you? Where were you?

Just a little late

You found me, you found me

-You Found Me, The Fray

~~~

I head into the trees for hours, my back towards the mountain, my gait constant, my throat parched, my stomach growling. I look around me, spying fat rabbits that look quite delicious. After a while, I ponder using my knife to kill one of them (I can't very well use my blowgun, for fear of getting poison into my bloodstream when I eat the rabbit… although, they've probably been consuming the toxic plants, which is something to fear, as well). I have my knife out to kill one of the rabbits and everything, and then it strikes me that I forgot to get matches at the Cornucopia.

Stupid, stupid! Hearth, the boy from the Seam that Fauna's always obsessing over, used to enjoy spouting out random facts about survival techniques to anyone who was around to hear him back home. As I remember that I don't have any matches on me and that there isn't any flint lurking around, I recall his tales of rabbit fever and my face quickly contorts into a disgusted expression at the thought of catching the disease.

Eating rabbit is out of the question, so I turn to the bread and fruit I have in my pack. I was thinking about saving it for later, but desperate measures call for desperate times. As dusk approaches (rain clouds do not, sadly, as far as I can tell through the canopy that stretches above my head), I sit upon a fallen log and open my large pack, pulling out a loaf of bread and splitting it in half. I hold the two pieces up to my nose and the hearty smell of barely stale bread wafts into my nostrils, making me smile. I've torn into one of the half loaves with my teeth and, ultimately, eaten it in a matter of seconds, having stuffed piece after piece into my mouth.

It is not until the last crumbs are gone that I realise I probably should have savoured it, because I am definitely not allowing myself to have the other half of the loaf. Placing the thing dejectedly back into the pack and stuffing my knife into it as far down as feasible, I set out again, using the twilight hour to search for a good hiding place.

Oh, what am I thinking? I have a camouflage blanket now! I can sleep anywhere! I take it from my pack and search for a bush that is green and not the strange mauve hue most bushes take on, for extra precaution (who knows if the more prickly of bushes are poisonous?). I soon find a green bush and dive into it, taking as long I want to move around and make myself comfortable. Once I do, I tug the blanket through the thick leaves of the bush and make sure to drape it over myself as well as possible. As far as I can tell, the blanket works, as it turns the same shade of green as the bush and takes on what seems to be the same texture (although it continues to feel like a blanket to me).

However, I don't dare cover my head. I want to see the anthem; I want to confirm that I was correct in my guessing games today. Although I am completely sure of myself, it gives me a false sense of mental security to know whether or not my brain functions normally enough to distinguish screams. I know it's sick. But I also know that I have to keep myself sane somehow, and my solution is playing games, and afterward, checking the answer key.

Like the crossword puzzles Father used to buy from the stationary shop back home, I think. Myra always passed them by, but when I was bored, I would occasionally take a book of puzzles from the drawer they were stored in and entertain myself with one. I wasn't good at the crosswords, since it often asked about famous people originating in the Capitol, and I didn't pay attention to that sort of thing on television. But I could always get someone to help me out on the last few problems, and then I would compare the puzzle to the answer key.

They weren't much back then- just puzzles- but now, I wish for them dearly. Instead, I have to guess who has died each day, and watch the anthem to confirm my theories.

I am pulled from my musings quickly as the anthem plays and the Capitol seal shines through the trees (although sunlight never gets through easily, the seal always does- maybe the Gamemakers temporarily cut a hole in the canopy right above the tributes at this certain point of time? I wouldn't know). And then the faces are replacing the seal. Two from District Three- Intella Gently and her counterpart with the metal braces- and one from District Five: Anahita, with her heart-shaped face and wide blue eyes.

I was correct. I sigh in relief, glad I could interpret who died, and slump back down into my bush, pulling the camouflage blanket over my head. As the anthem plays once again, I sink into dreams of thirst, poison, death, and Hestia, cutting my hair off little by little.

~~~

I wake up to the sound of voices.

It takes me a split second to realise that for one, I'm in the Hunger Games. Furthermore, when you're in the Hunger Games, the sound of voices is rather unfortunate... whether they are a) sounding in your head, or b) sounding next to you. As it happens, after a minute of listening intently, I find the two voices aren't just next to me, but belong to-

"This is a good place to stop, don't'cha think, Devon?"

Of course. It's the two boy tributes from District Ten.

"Yeah, Willie, this 's a decent place. There are a few good bushes 'round we can sleep in, and there are 'nuff trees to build a trip wire with a can attached to see if anyone's comin'."

"Least we got that can."

"Sally probably thought that can wouldn't'a done much good; ya know she ain't real nice. Well, Sally!" Devon says this loudly, directing it towards the sky, as if taunting his mentor. "We can use anythin' we can get our hands on down here in the 'rena, so keep on sendin' those cans over, if you please!"

Sally Moole, winner of the twenty-eighth annual Hunger Games, is forty years old and one of the most mean-spirited mentors out there. She's infamous for sending her tributes useless things, such as paper clips, a flask full of bacon grease, and once, an extremely stale fruitcake. Miraculously, her tributes always find ways to use these items to their benefit. The paper clips were unfolded and wrapped around a metal pole until the object resembled a reasonably flimsy albeit decent spiked mace; a branch with one end wrapped in cloth stuck in the bacon grease and then lit on fire, creating a torch; the fruitcake slammed into another tribute's head until they died from extreme brain injuries. Sally Moole doesn't try to accomplish anything, but she gets her tributes out of the arena as often as any mentor (except for Jacen Iridescent), so her tactics are annoyingly admirable.

But I doubt those from District Ten like her much, as she never sends food, water, or medicine, like any regular mentor would. Many of Sally's tributes have died from infection or wounds bleeding out because she doesn't send antiseptic or bandages. It's no wonder Devon seemingly hates her.

Meanwhile, Willie laughs that innocent, childlike laugh of his. If I were not mistaken, I would have thought the boy was even younger than Hemlock, considering his bright eyes and naïvety to everything that matters (death, killing, the Hunger Games). I pity him. I do.

However, the pity soon vanishes as I realise the pair from Ten are standing right next to my restingplace and won't be on the move anytime soon. If they plan on making camp here, it could be days before they leave… and I cannot stay in a bush, unmoving, for days! If I emerge from the bush, though, the rustling will surely alert them that someone is near. Damn it, damn it, damn it. I am such an idiot! I clutch my blowgun tighter at my side and wrack my brains for a solution out of this nearly impossible-to-solve dilemma.

Well, they're bound to both leave at some point, right? Maybe they'll get hungry enough (assuming they don't have packs) that they'll both go foraging for blackberries or something. But no- they probably have packs. So then, I'm sure Devon has a knife that he can kill some rabbits with (also assuming they think that the rabbits aren't poisonous), and he might tug Willie along on the hunt with him. That's the best scenario I can think of; I'm not even going to consider the worst scenario.

After this solution is constructed in my mind, I can do nothing but wait, listening to the voices of a gullible twelve-year-old and a protective eighteen-year-old from District Ten, wishing they would fade away and let me leave my temporary bed in peace.

I wait for hours.

~~~

It's about midday when Willie begins to complain that he's hungry. From what I can hear, Devon gives him a slice of bread (I wish I could open my pack now and cut myself a slice too!), but it simply "isn't enough." I direct annoyed thoughts at Willie- this is the Hunger Games, get used to your stomach growling- but I can't deny I'm absolutely joyous. My feet have fallen asleep, as have my legs, and it would be a simple gift to stretch them again- to run again! If Willie's hungry, then they will go searching for food, and will finally let me be.

"Fine, then I'll be goin' off to hunt a rabbit then," Devon announces, and I hold my breath in anticipation. "Willie, take care of yourself. Whatever ya do, don't eat anythin'... from the arena or the pack!"

I realise that even if Devon goes hunting, then Willie will most likely stay behind. And no matter how aggravatingly naïve he is, I cannot kill that twelve-year-old boy. Defeated, I sigh to myself, attempting to massage my legs from beneath the camouflage blanket… and that's when I hear Willie call, "Wait up, Devon!"

From what I can tell, Willie runs after Devon, who is already fifty metres away- much too far away to be able to make out what they are saying. But much to my relief, the low murmuring far to my right disappears soon enough and I don't hear anyone return. Did Willie ask to hunt with his ally? Did Devon comply? The thoughts swirl around in my head for minutes in which I can hear nothing but the rustling of trees and the calls of songbirds. The minutes are agonizing, but after ten or so, I start to wonder if Willie really is gone off hunting.

After twenty minutes, I work up the courage to rise out of the bush. I struggle to remove the camouflage blanket, as we are both inside of the bush and the density of the branches and leaves are constricting. Soon I've managed to pull it off me, and then I sit up, pushing the branches away with one hand so they don't catch me in the eye. The other hand holds my blowgun, just in case, but I'm quite positive that both Willie and Devon are gone.

Soon, I'm standing upright, and am facing an orchard of fruit trees. Surely they didn't make camp here. Then there'd be packs and a shelter and whatnot… of course they wouldn't have made camp just to pack it up and leave it again… and why would they leave it, anyway, vulnerable to thieves?

Suddenly, I hear a branch crack. And then I'm whirling around in the bush, raising my blowgun to just beneath my lips, coming face to face with a certain boy from District Ten, who is staring wide-eyed and wielding an enormous butcher knife. "Who are you?" He asks in a shaky voice. "Why were you in that bush?"

I am too shocked to answer- He's here? Wasn't he hunting? He's been silent these past twenty minutes? What is going on?- and so I step forward, out of the bush, holding the eye contact between the young boy and myself. I see this scares him. "D-don't come any closer! Or I swear- I swear I'll kill you!"

"You don't want to kill me," I say, calmly, after collecting myself. "And I don't want to kill you. So, if you would just let me retrieve my things from this bush, I'll be on my way, and Devon will never know I was here. Don't you worry, Willie."

"H-how do you know my name?" The boy pushes his sweaty, dirty blonde locks away from his forehead, his hazel eyes wide with fear, his arm extended so the butcher knife is pointed a metre away from my chest. "Devon told me to take care of myself- told me to kill if I had to- there is no reason for you to kill me- but I have to kill you because you will! You will kill me!"

"I said I wouldn't kill you," I exclaim, but it's no use. Willie has suddenly turned into a raving mad boy who doesn't know who he is or what his morals are. In an instant, I have taken his innocence and naïvety from him, and he doesn't know what to do without it. So that's why he comes flying at me with the butcher knife; that's why he lets out a war cry louder than any scream I've ever heard; that's why I lift my blowgun to my lips; that's why I blow. Because I am giving him freedom to become innocent again, in death.

The boy, when hit in the neck with the dart, suddenly stops. Time seems to slow down as the butcher knife falls from his grasp and he teeters back and forth in front of me, pulling the dart from his neck and staring at it dazedly before it drops to the ground. And then he is coughing violently, spraying blood all over my face, choking and screeching and crying and gasping. I cannot do anything but stare as he lifts his hands from his mouth, his bloody, bloody hands, and then turns his accusing hazel eyes towards mine. His face has gone white, his lips covered in what looks like red paint, and then Willie from Ten is reaching out to me, pressing a hand to my chest.

After this, time assumes its normal course, and Willie is collapsing, falling, coughing, choking, writhing, dying.

Boom.

All I can do is look down, where Willie's handprint and memory will remain forever: on my chest, and in my heart.

~~~

Myra is kneeling in front of me. Her hands are on either side of my face, and she is sobbing. Why is she sobbing? I'm sobbing too. Why am I sobbing? "I killed that little boy," I tell her. Oh, yes. That's why I'm sobbing, my tears falling towards the forest floor. Tears of blood, making a red pool on the ground. Blood... Willie's blood. "I'm a monster, Myra. I'm a monster."

"Breathe. Breathe," she chokes out, and there's blood pouring from her mouth, coating her chin, dripping into the depths of existence. Have I killed my sister, too? If she's dead, then why is she talking? Is my sister a ghost? "It's okay to be a monster."

Somehow, this strikes me funny. I laugh. Laugh, laugh, laugh. And then I'm clutching my sides and Myra is clawing at my face and there is more blood, more blood, and I'm screaming. Screaming at the body of the boy in front of me, who lies in the midst of the pine needles, replacing Myra. Where is Myra? I look around, and she is gone. Is she simply in my memory? Is this arena my memory? No, because it seems so real- like Willie's body- like the blood pouring out of his mouth. But that was a while ago. Now there's only a pool of blood. And the blowgun that has killed him... I clutch it in my hand.

My hand! I have to let go. I have to let go of this thing that I have inflicted pain with. But why can't my hand let go? It's because I'm a monster. A monster. A monster that- what was that? Who is screaming now? Is it me? No, it's not me. Is it Myra? No, Myra is gone. This is a man's scream. What's his name again? Oh, yes. Devon.

Devon, Devon, Devon. I turn to see him, and he is running very slowly. Or quickly? I can't tell. Everything's blurry. Blurry like a crystal. But aren't crystals clear? That's right- how funny- what am I doing?- Laughter, laughter, laughter.

Devon, Devon, Devon. Have you seen the boy I killed? Have you seen how he lies, motionless, on the ground? Have you seen that scary pool of blood that came gushing out of his mouth? Have you seen the death I have inflicted? Do you realise I'm a monster now- who cannot breathe- because monsters can't breathe... But to kill you, I have to breathe, and I have to kill you because I have to survive. For someone. I don't remember who I'm surviving for, but I know I cannot die. And you're broken, too, Devon, so I'm giving you a free ticket to death. I giggle. Free ticket to death. Laughter, laughter, laughter.

Devon, Devon, Devon. Closer now. Closer. You can see the whites of his blank eyes, can't you? The one you thought of as your little brother? Willie from Ten. He left a handprint on my chest. Where's the handprint gone? Has it washed away from Myra's tears? Or are they my tears? Oh, no- the handprint's gone! IT'S GONE! No, no, silly, the handprint is still there. Good. Willie's still alive. No he isn't! I've killed him! I've killed him? I don't remember killing him. Yes, you do! Laughter, laughter, laughter.

Devon, Devon, Devon. You're holding a rabbit. Were you going to give that to Willie? Was he going to eat it with relish, complimenting you on your fine catch? Too late now. Too late to take him with you on your hunting trip- too late to prevent his insanity, to prevent his attempted murder. He tried to kill me, so I killed him. Now I'm mad, like he was. Or am I mad? Either way, I've still killed him. There's still a handprint on my chest. You're still running after me. And my blowgun isn't loaded. It's not loaded? Oh, oh! Not enough time, not enough time, not enough time. If I had more time, I'd kill you, too. Funny, I never thought I was a murderer. Laughter, laughter, laughter.

Devon, Devon, Devon. Silly man, you're running at me with a butcher knife! A butcher knife! A butcher knife? Didn't Willie have one? It's on the ground... isn't it? Where is the knife? Where is it where is it where is it? There it is. I pick it up and I scream. You're screaming too. This whole time you've been screaming. You are such an idiot, Devon. You're supposed to be quiet in here- in this arena. But I'm not quiet either. Maybe because I want to die. No! I can't die! I can't die! I can't! I have to survive! Not that I want to survive. Ha, ha, ha, I don't want to survive any more, but I have to. For somebody I can't even remember. Laughter, laughter, laughter.

Devon, Devon, Devon. I'm standing up... lifting the knife... dodging yours... stabbing you. Devon, Devon, Devon. You're dead now. You're dead. There is a cannon, and you're dead. Boom, boom, boom. But there's not three- there's one! Something must make it echo. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm the one who is making it echo. No, silly, you can't make something echo! Silly girl! Laughter, laughter, laughter. I'm a monster... I'm a monster...

A monster that can kill; will kill; has killed.

~~~

I wake up to a slight beeping noise. My face is unusually warm and as I open my eyes I can see nothing but sunlight. Squinting against the brightness, I push myself up on one hand to survey the area. No. It can't be. I look away and then again gaze around the clearing I lie in, but it is still in the same state. I pinch myself, but I am not dreaming.

There is blood everywhere, and when I touch my face, dried blood flakes off. I am extremely confused, not able to remember how I got into this situation, when I spy the bodies. The bodies of two boys I never really got to know. And then it all comes rushing back. Willie and his handprint, Devon and his screaming, the butcher knife, the sudden darkness that surrounded me everywhere I looked.

I have to choke back a sob at what I have become, but I cannot dwell in my memories for long, because there is a loud thunk from behind me. Scurrying to my feet and whirling around, I shuffle into the fighting stance they taught us at hand-to-hand combat, just to realise my opponent is a parachute.

A parachute?

It quickly strikes me that Alder refused to help us in the arena, since I received a training score of seven. So why is there a parachute now? I stumble over to it cautiously, picking up the flimsy thing. Attached to the parachute is a small contraption that beeps continuously and, inside it, is a note written in scrawled handwriting.

It reads:

To Miss Donner-

It is of great importance that you evacuate from the area, as we would like to retrieve the bodies of the tributes that you killed approximately one hour and forty-seven minutes ago. Please do so in good time, or else we may have to take extra measures. May the odds be ever in your favour.

-Sorphigan Pronx and company

I laugh (a bit hysterically) as I read the note, and once having perused it, I look to the sky and nod once. I then proceed to gather my things, trying desperately to ignore the corpses of the boys from Ten, for whenever I do, I experience a vision from my memories that shakes me drastically. I have to put their deaths behind me. I have to keep reminding myself that they are in a better place now.

After stuffing the camouflage blanket that I have repossessed back in my pack, I take up my blowgun (remarkably clean of blood) and reload it with another poisonous dart. I then look over the items of the packs Willie was sitting next to before his murder (for yes, I am now a murderer of innocent children, to my utter desolation and dismay) and find some foodstuff that is worth salvaging. I retrieve from the packs' depths another loaf of bread and a few apples. How wondrous! as my tongue feels swollen and I cannot wet it, and the apples will have juices in them to suck. I really do need water, but looking at the sky and its ever-puffy white clouds, I don't think it will rain.

Please let it rain, I think, after stuffing the apples in my backpack and keeping one out for myself to munch on hungrily during my... journey to nowhere.

The five minutes set by the Gamemakers are up, and I must evacuate as told. I am just about to step out of the clearing when I catch sight of Willie's pitiable corpse. Unable to look away, I feel I desperately need some sort of closure. And so I turn and touch three fingers to my lips, holding my hand out to the two dead tributes that were once Willie and Devon from Ten.

This gesture is a sign of love and respect, back in District Twelve. It is a sign that we often use at funerals. And I am paying my last respects, for I will not visit their funeral, even if I make it out of these wretched Games.

And then I walk away from the clearing, my blowgun in one hand, the apple in the other, and an imaginary hand pressed to my heart with the three-fingered salute, showing respect and love for the handprint Willie left there.

I do not look back.

~~~

I only come to a complete stop when I see the fluffy, golden squirrel. It sits in front of me, chattering away in that high-pitched language squirrels tend to constantly use, looking about as harmless as a butterfly. Then again, the butterflies here aren't exactly harmless- I've seen the stingers on them, and the evidence of their poison (Frond from District Four, whom I saw when retrieving extra supplies from the Cornucopia, fell victim, of course). Maybe that's why I get the feeling that this squirrel is intent on injuring me.

"You going to kill me too?" I ask it, my voice barely above a hoarse whisper (I am so thirsty), raising my blowgun to my lips.

Instantly, the squirrel goes from harmless to fearsome. I suppose it realises that I can see behind its cute façade and knows it will never fool me. Its teeth, sharp and pointy, glint as the squirrel bares them, and then it is flying at me ruthlessly, with murderous intent. The dart in my blowgun intercepts it with accurate precision, and the squirrel drops to the ground, dead. Like Hemlock, hit in the head. Like Willie, the blood so red. Like Devon, coherent words unsaid. Dead, dead, dead.

I quickly shrug off my backpack, unzipping it and pulling out the pouch of extra darts, which I conveniently placed on top of all my other things. I take one dart from the pouch, careful not to touch the poisonous tip, and reload the blowgun. Don't want to be caught off-guard by a random tribute without the gun loaded!

I'm about to return the pouch to my pack when I hear more chattering from behind me. Damn it. Should have known there'd be more.

I turn to find three squirrels, conversing with each other, taunting me. I'm furious, but keep my movements slow as I reach into my pouch and extract another two darts, pinching them between the fingers of my left hand. Now, I am regretting not retrieving Willie's butcher knife from Devon's heart. I need a weapon that will not run out of projectiles! There's a knife at the bottom of my pack, but it's too late to get that, too.

It is not until I stand up that the squirrels quit their squeaking and launch themselves at me. I manage to take the first one down in seconds, diagnosing it with the red cough, and then reload my gun with one of the darts I hold in my hand, proceeding to hit the second, killing it instantly. The last, however, is lucky enough to latch itself onto my arm, biting down hard enough to draw blood. I take the last dart in my hand and plunge it into its furry body. It lets go of my bleeding forearm and is dead before it touches the fallen leaves.

This time, my guard is completely up. I take up the pouch and load my blowgun again. There are five squirrels now, and I take four darts in my left hand, ready for battle. When they fly at me, I hit one... two... three with my blowgun, and then jab two darts into the remaining squirrels' fuzzy stomachs, but not before they take good chunks out of my biceps.

Why are the Gamemakers targeting me? I wonder. Are they so set on rendering me weaponless that they must send flesh-eating squirrels to waste my darts? Before they can send any more of the evil rodents, I turn my face towards to the heavens, and address the Head Gamemaker.

"Sorphigan Pronx!" I call. "I am quite curious as to why you are making me waste my weapons. Do you want to leave me vulnerable to other tributes? Do you want them to kill me? Do you want to kill me? And then, why are you using such a pathetic means of killing me off, when you could simply send a parachute in my direction after attaching a bomb to it? A quick, gruesome death… but I suppose the audience wouldn't like that." I smile, trying to disguise how hoarse my voice sounds. "To put it simply, the only point of sending the squirrels is to doom me to a drawn-out death, and as I am assured that the audience would rather see me go into battle with a tribute rather than something Gamemaker-made, I believe you should let me travel in peace."

Sorphigan Pronx seems to take my words into full consideration, because he sends no more squirrels... and he sends no bombs, either. I spend a full five minutes waiting to see if he truly is heeding my request, and finally, realising that there is no point in standing in the same position for so long, I bandage my arms and gather up my things. I have wasted nine darts on the squirrels and I grimace as I look into the pouch, pulling one out to reload the blowgun for the fourth time today. I wonder if there are more darts back in the Cornucopia, but I've already turned back once; I don't want to turn back again.

I set off into the wilderness, and not for the last time.

~~~

It's around four in the afternoon when I begin to hear a loud rumbling noise in the distance. I jump, thinking it is a cannon, but it lasts much too long for that. Then, after a long pause, it sounds again, and I think it is the mountain turning into a volcano- well, I wouldn't be surprised if it were, what with the bad vibes I've been getting from it! But all my theories are dashed when the rumbling (after multiple pauses) gets louder, louder, louder- I turn my face toward the skies- and the rain comes pouring down.

Rain! Rain! It is beautiful; it is sweet; it is replenishing. My tongue, once so dry, is instantly wet again. My cracked lips are coated in a fine sheen of water. I let out a sigh of relief and drop my pack to the already soaked ground, bending to extract my empty water bottles and the blue bowl. I look around to find that I am near a banana tree and go over to it, bending the leaves in such a way that the rain will slide down them and into the bottles and bowl. Then, I rip half a leaf off of the tree, holding it to my mouth to form a sort of funnel to catch more rainwater.

The water is so sweet it is almost unbearable, but so deliciously wet that I drink and drink until my stomach cannot hold any more. Then, I sink to the ground, running my hands through my short, wet hair, giggling like a girl that has survived all seven reapings with her mind and body fully intact. Except… I haven't. My joy is spurred by rain, after two and a half days of nothing but an apple to quench my undying thirst.

I giggle and giggle, soaked to the bone in the midst of the rain that is falling in sheets, until I look at my chest. My chest. Willie's handprint. The handprint that was once visible is now washing away; washing away like Willie's memory is washing away as I drive it out of my thoughts. And then I cannot drive it out any more- the memories are plaguing me- blood and death and coughing and screaming and stabbing. I have killed two boys. I am a monster. Myra is here now and she's telling me it's okay to be a monster; to be Maysilee; to be myself. She is beginning to scratch my face off. Or am I scratching my own face off? Either way, it hurts- it hurts- and I deserve the pain, no matter how much pain there is.

I am curled up in a ball, and I can't breathe. "Breathe!" Myra shouts. "Breathe!" There's screaming, but it's far, far away. There's somebody saying, "Oh, dear," but that's in another world- an alternate universe. I feel like I'm floating up into the air and in a certain direction, but that must be in my imagination, because everything is stable. Everything is clear. Everything is in black and white except for the handprint, the red handprint, which is slowly fading- dying- before my very eyes.

I thought it would remain forever, but it's slowly dawning on me that the handprint and the damage that came with it will only last temporarily. The physical handprint and the physical damage, that is. The emotional handprint and its own form of damage will haunt me until the day of my death.

Maybe I should die. Then I will be rid of everything that has ever tried to break me. Not to imply that I will deliberately kill myself, but the freedom that comes with death might relieve me from the damage- might make me happy. And Snow knows what I wouldn't give to be happy.

~~~

I awaken to the sound of singing.

Well, not singing, exactly. It is more of a comforting, quiet humming. However, it is loud enough to hear clearly, and the tune is quite relaxing. I don't open my eyes, but as minutes pass, I slowly become aware of what is around me: I am on dry ground; there are blankets surrounding my shivering body; there is the faint crackling of a fire and the smell of smoke; the humming is female, but I cannot distinguish whose mouth it emits from.

I have the sense that I should be frightened, but I'm not. I have the sense that I should be wailing and sobbing- but I don't remember what to cry about. I am content to lay here in my cocoon and forget where I am (in the arena of the 50th Hunger Games) and what I should be doing (which I can't exactly figure out, hence the absent sense of urgency).

But the time comes where I cannot bear to keep my eyes shut one second longer, and so I slowly peel them apart. The scene that meets my eyes consists of branches tied together with twine. A branch-plank. Rolling over, I can see out of a small triangle, riddled with dead leaves and bark, met with the view of trees and the sun shining through their leaves. Instantly, it all clicks, and I laugh, listening to my caretaker as she hums. "Rosalina!" I call, and the tune immediately stops, the song replaced with the image of her face through the triangle.

"You're awake!" Rosalina practically squeals- her smile, in all its glory, taking up the bottom half of her face as she peers through the small space.

"Awake, yes," I reply. "And reunited with my ally. How in the world did that occur?" Rosalina lifts the branch-plank off me as I say this, and I am slowly sitting up, brushing the leaves out of my damp, cropped hair. I frown at the dampness. There's no water in the arena. How is my hair wet?

My clothes are damp too, and although my lips are chapped, there's moisture to them. I'm contemplating these changes and wracking my brain to conjure up a memory of water (to no success) as Rosalina explains:

"Yesterday, late afternoon, there was a thunderstorm. I'm sure you remember- I'll bet you were as thirsty as I. And I was so thirsty, I drank about a gallon and a half!" She laughs. "But that's beside the point. After I got my fair share of rain water, I was walking back toward this camp (which I left behind to find a banana tree), and I just happened to come across you, on the verge of madness, seemingly attempting to claw your face off and screaming something awful.

"I thought you were Platina, at first, what with the short hair- is that why you cropped it? to look like Platina? pretty ingenious of you- but then I thought to myself, 'Platina wouldn't be screaming like a banshee in the midst of the arena,' and it turned out to be you. And I'm so glad I let myself have second thoughts on your identity, because if I had passed you by, I doubt we'd ever cross each other again. ...Anyways, when I finally got around to dragging you back to camp, along with your full water bottles and pack, you'd gone unconscious. Now it's around ten o'clock in the morning, judging by the sun's position.

"Well, that concludes my version of last evening's events. Care to indulge me on why you were shouting so loudly? Must have been something terrible to induce that. But, on second thought, we are in the Hunger Games," she finishes, with a sombre, twisted smile.

I can do nothing but stare at her tale. I cannot remember any of this... I simply cannot remember! I clasp my hands together and squeeze, frightened at my sudden, supposed amnesia. "I have no recollection of that occurrence, Rosalina."

She, who is leading me over to a log near a small fire, freezes in mid-step, and then her head is turning ninety degrees to face me. The rage in her gray eyes is considerable. "The birds do," she hisses. And then she proceeds to turn her head back in the other direction, a placid, slightly worried expression crossing her features as if she has said nothing of any importance.

"Excuse me?" I recoil, feeling as if something has gone horribly wrong now that Rosalina's episodes are occurring during daylight.

"What?" Rosalina looks perplexed as she sits upon a log opposite the fire, picking up a stick to stir around the jumble of blazing wood and ashes. "All I said was that I was worried about you. Is that so horrible that one should recoil as you have?"

"Rosalina… you said nothing of the sort."

Rosalina cocks her head to the side, staring at me warily. "Yes, I did. Mays, I think you're imagining things… Which is totally normal, after whatever you experienced that made you scream so loudly." I sigh, trying to forget her momentary lapse, and she continues. "Now, I suppose you're hungry. I am. What have you eaten since the beginning of the Games?"

I think back. "A couple of beef strips; half a loaf of bread; maybe a bit of dried fruit? I'm not sure, Rosalina. Everything has been happening so fast."

She takes this as her cue to remove her backpack from her shoulders and rummage through it, pulling out a full loaf of stale bread. "We'll share," she says, tearing the bread down the middle, as evenly as possible. "Tell me if you need anything more after that, I have another loaf and you have a few as well. They're going stale, so we need to eat them quickly."

As she hands me my bread, I have a sudden urge to ask her a question. "Who died yesterday? You never told me."

"Willie and Devon from Ten," she replies, zipping up her pack nonchalantly. "Why do you ask?"

But I do not answer, for it all comes rushing back. Willie with his naïvety and innocence, Willie with his dirty blonde locks of hair and wide, hazel eyes, Willie coming at me with a butcher knife and Willie coughing blood and Willie leaving the handprint on my chest and Willie dying, dying, dying. Devon with his protective nature, Devon with his screams of rage, Devon running at me with his own butcher knife and Devon with the other knife in his chest and Devon dying, dying, dying.

Myra, telling me I wasn't a monster. Myra, clawing my face. Myra, who is my twin sister, and is thousands of kilometres away from me now… possibly even further than that, in terms of memories. Myra, whom I probably won't ever see again.

And myself. Myself- killing, turning into a monster, breathing, screaming, sobbing, and going completely insane. There are less important things too: the waiting, the three-fingered salute, the squirrels, the rain and the joy that came with it. But the only words that come out of my mouth are: "I also ate an apple."

"What?"

"I ate an apple, Rosalina," I look at her intently, staring into those gray eyes that are oh-so-much-like-Haymitch's but don't quite reach the amount of depth that his can. "I remember now. I ate a red apple. From the Cornucopia, that is… I'm not so brainless that I'd eat something originating in the arena."

"Okay..." Unsure of what to say, my friend (and ally) takes a large bite of her bread, chewing it methodically.

I shudder, thinking of the coughing; thinking of the handprint; thinking of the apple. "It was a red apple, Rosalina. A bright crimson... just like Willie's blood."

Understanding floods her eyes a split second later, and then I'm crying into her shoulder and she's patting me on the back and murmuring into my ear that it's okay, that it's all going to be okay- and it's not! it's not! because I've killed two boys and I can't take it back- oh how I wish I could sink to the ground and just die! I tell this to Rosalina and she, such a wonderful friend, whispers in my ear that she needs me and I can't ever leave her- that I can't die.

I promise her that I won't. That I won't leave her- that I won't die. But we all know these words hold an emptiness to them, for we all die in the end. It's the Game that kills us. Physically, twenty-three of us will die. Mentally, we all do... even the winner. It's inevitable. I'm beginning to understand this now.

All of it is inevitable.

~~~

We stay in the camp for a couple hours, tending to the fire, making sure it doesn't grow so large that the smoke will drift up through the trees, therefore notifying other tributes of our position. My damp clothes and hair slowly dry, but my mouth does not, as we now have six bottles and two bowls of water to share between the two of us. Also, as the bowls cannot be covered, it doesn't make sense to conserve the water in them, so we allow ourselves to take generous sips out of the two bowls every couple minutes or so.

I've soon recovered from my "meltdown" (for the most part), and somewhere deep inside myself I swear that I will not show my weaknesses and flaws again until these Games are over. Then again, I'm probably promising myself not to show weakness until my death, which could or could not be as far away as it seems. Either way, I'm putting on a show for the cameras. It's what the Gamemakers want, after all- and they don't have to send squirrel-mutts to prove their point.

I narrate the story of Hestia cutting my hair the other day and it makes Rosalina laugh. "Your stylist really is the most shallow person I've ever met- to leave your hair down when it was obviously going to become tangled in the first minute of the Games!" She chuckles. "At least Rosea didn't put cosmetics on you. It's a wonder Augusta even liked her."

This reminds me of Augusta's petty crush, and I giggle as well. "Rosea wasn't that bad," I say. "And I began to like her, towards the end. But I do admit, her refusal to tie up my hair was a poor decision." Then it hits me that we are in the Hunger Games and we are talking about our hair, and I giggle even more.

"That reminds me, would you re-braid my hair? It's falling out."

I comply, still smiling to myself, and undo her braid, running my fingers through her slightly matted, greasy black hair (the fact that we do not have enough water to expend on bathing is a bit of a downfall).

As I'm re-braiding her hair, we strike up another conversation: this one not so light-hearted but not pessimistic, either. It's a game, almost... she tells me one wish, I tell her another. Rosalina wishes for a shower, I wish for a warm bed to sleep in. Rosalina wishes for her friends, I wish for mine. Rosalina wishes she knew why she got a two as a training score, I wish that I had received an eight. The list seems never-ending. "If wishes were tesserae," Rosalina admits, "'Rosalina Dark' would be the only name in the girls' reaping bowl."

"Then thank Panem that wishes aren't tesserae." I tie off the end of her braid with the hair band she gave me and smile at her. "Now, are you up for some protein? We have plenty of beef strips to spare."

~~~

One of Rosalina's wishes comes true, a bit past noon. And it might be fate, it might be pure luck, it might be a coincidence, or it might have been planned, but of all people, it is her brother that stumbles into our camp just as we are putting out our fire.

He isn't quiet, not the least bit. At first we think it is some sort of mutt, tromping through the woods in our direction, because no tribute can make so much noise and get away with it! I raise my blowgun to just below my chin, hesitant but ready to kill anything that stumbles upon our makeshift camp. Rosalina is without a weapon, so I unzip my pack and pull out my extra knife, tossing it to her (it was originally at the bottom of my pack, but after the squirrel incident, I placed it on top of the rest of the things, next to the blowgun darts).

Rosalina looks at the knife at her feet (she didn't catch it), a look of shock and disgust and hesitancy crossing her features as she struggles to figure out whether or not she will pick it up. In the end, the battle is won by her sense of preservation, and she reaches forward to grip the knife by the handle so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

Whoever or whatever it is approaches at an alarming rate. The crashing increases until it is all but deafening. It seems to come from behind us, in front of us, all around us… and then there is a single pause in which time seems so stop.

Following this is a loud war cry emitting from a human boy as he flies at us from behind. It scares Rosalina and I half to death and we whirl around, stumbling backwards out of reach of the dark, curly-haired thirteen-year-old boy's award-worthy spin-hook kick (that would be near fatal if it hit one in the head). Following this is another momentary pause as he lands on his feet, running in one direction to wane the momentum that must be acquired for such a kick.

And then… "Tyler?"

There is a flurry of motion as Rosalina rushes at Tyler, dropping the knife I entrusted her with and enveloping him in an embrace. He returns it, looking pleasantly shocked and a bit exasperated as she whispers words in his ear that I cannot distinguish. Nor do I want to distinguish them- this is a moment between both siblings that should not be broken by an outsider, no matter how close (friendship-wise) that outsider may be.

When he manages to unentangle himself from the hug, he breaks into a smile, staring at the both of us and exclaiming, "The odds surely are in our favour. Fancy seeing you two here. I apologise for trying to kick you, sister- and Maysilee, of course."

I nod, taking in his figure. Tyler looks remarkably... intact. His face is free of scrapes or bruises, and simply looks the slightest bit dirty. His hair is tangled and riddled with fallen leaves, meaning he's slept on the ground, probably underneath a branch-plank (it seems to be the siblings' shelter specialty). His clothes are torn, but not from flesh-eating squirrels or rogue tributes... simply because of his tendency to tromp through the forest at a quick rate. Underneath the thin jacket he wears, the thirteen-year-old looks to be gaining some muscle... and the glint in his gray eyes makes him look moderately older. The easy smile he wears is the only remaining trait of the bright, frail spirit he once was.

Four days into the arena, and we have already aged decades. Every single one of us.

We sit on the logs around the once-lit fire and exchange words of welcome. Rosalina, sitting next to Tyler, can't seem to keep her hands off his shoulders, his hair, his cheeks, his back, his knees. She loves him as a sister would, but now that the Games have been introduced to their lives, their bond becomes even stronger in Rosalina's eyes. Still a bond between siblings, but one that is close to unbreakable. I don't know how it is for Tyler, for I don't know him as well as she, although I know he loves her dearly.

But maybe, just maybe, he doesn't love her as much.

A pack hangs from his shoulders and he removes it, showing us its contents. A bit of food, a couple water bottles, some rope. No weapons. I ask him about this, and Tyler shrugs. "I got a decent haul. Didn't go back to the Cornucopia because I was looking for Rosalina and the rest of the alliance- well, you and Hestia- is the alliance still on?- anyway, now I've found you two, maybe we can go back to the Cornucopia? Although now, that seems silly. We are so far away it would take a day or two to get there."

His statement about Hestia and the alliance spurs my confession that Hestia and I could have banded together, but I was afraid to venture onto the mountain, and she into the forest. "I threw the chance away. We could have her here with us if I had tried to convince Hestia to come with me and form an alliance..."

"Nonsense!" Rosalina interjects. "Hestia is stubborn, you know that. Her mind cannot be changed when it is set. Your attempts would have been useless." However, her words of reassurance don't do anything to relieve me of my regrets.

We exchange other stories. I've heard most of Rosalina's, and she's heard most of mine, but listening to them again gives us something to do. After all, it's worth it, to see Tyler laugh at my tale of Hestia cutting off my hair and Rosalina's story of chucking fruits into the acid river to see if it was safe to drink. Tyler tells a few of his own, a few being rather pessimistic. He watched Intella Gently's death, as well has her metal-toothed counterpart's, and I am reminded that his name was Luther.

Of course, the thought of death reminds me of Willie and Devon, and the words come tumbling out of my mouth in a waterfall of emotion, directed at Tyler. "I killed the two boys from Ten," I say. "They made their camp next to the spot where I was sleeping. I killed Willie first. He left me a handprint. Of blood." I gesture to my chest. "And then Devon. He screamed. I screamed. Knifed him." The words are empty, emotionless.

The words induce an odd reaction from the thirteen-year-old. For a moment when Tyler catches my eyes with his gray ones, I see a certain lust. Not lust as in desire, but more of a relish for something of greedy intent. It is frightening, but it only lasts a moment, and then Tyler gives me the sort of smile that is sombre and encouraging all at once, placing his hand on top of mine. "Nobody blames you, Maysilee. Someone had to do it. And you had to survive. They would have killed you."

"Yes," I mumble, staring at the canopy above me. "Willie tried to kill me, before I... before I..."

And then I halt in my sentence as the image of that greedy lust in Tyler's eyes flashes in front of mine, telling me that I should not mention the blowgun, telling me that my weapons should remain a secret. I must look at the blowgun that is resting in my right hand (closer to Rosalina), because all of the sudden, Tyler's eyes are drawn to it. "What were you going to say? What is that you're holding?"

"It's a-" Rosalina replies, but I interrupt her.

"It's a walking stick," I say firmly.

"A walking stick? But it's obviously made by the Gamemakers. Why else would it be carved in such a fine way, the ends rounded off? And why would the Gamemakers put a walking stick in the Cornucopia?" His eyes narrow in confusion.

"All I know is that this is what I got in my pack," I reply, my gaze flicking to Rosalina, who looks indignant and slightly miffed. "It's not good for anything. To short to be a staff, not heavy enough to be some sort of club, and too long to be used to bash someone's head in. So it's a walking stick. Now, Rosalina, should we treat your brother to some of the water in your bowl? He has water bottles of his own, but I think it would be the right thing to save them."

And then Tyler is nodding, looking towards Rosalina, his eyebrows raising in an unassuming sort of way and the corner of his lip turning up in the faintest of smirks for reasons unknown to me.

~~~

It is around two o'clock in the afternoon when the ground begins to shake slightly. It begins as suddenly as it stops- the fruits swing on the trees and then they still once again, the dwindling water in our bowls sloshes around for a moment before it flattens out once again. I look up instantly to make eye contact with Rosalina, who whispers one word before chaos ensues.

"Earthquake."

The arena seems to shift suddenly out from beneath our feet. I doubt much earthquakes are exactly like this- it is, amongst many things, something I've never experienced but have read about in the textbooks back home- but I'm sure it is an earthquake, albeit Gamemaker-induced. And suddenly, I understand why they call it an earthquake, because I'm falling to the floor from my upright position and only barely managing to escape hitting my head by catching myself with my hands.

As I hit the ground, I curl up into a ball and put my hands over my head, waiting for the earthquake to move on. A log bumps into my side and I hiss in pain, but I don't dare lift my head until the initial wave and the majourity of the aftershocks have passed by.

Once I find the courage to stand, wobbling as the aftershocks pass by, I try to clear the ringing in my ears that came with the initial wave. Tyler and Rosalina slowly get up, too, and we share bewildered looks. It takes a moment for the noise in my ears to stop, and by then Tyler is saying in a small voice, "What was that? Why did they send it?"

"It was an earthquake, Tyler. And they sent it because..." Rosalina trails off, unsure of why the Gamemakers would create this specific natural disaster on such a peaceful, serene day (although I'm sure it's only serene because they wanted to surprise us with the earthquake. Just like them- though I do admit the tactic worked).

I feel as if something is going to go down soon. Something bad.

The questions rising on my tongue are answered when we hear a rumbling in the distance. At first, we think it's thunder. But as the rumbling goes on, never stopping, never allowing a break in between bursts of sound, we rule thunder out as a possibility. The noise is ever growing, the trees shaking, and it seems to be another earthquake but it's not, oh it's not, because we just had an earthquake. What is it? What the hell is that foreboding noise?

And then... comes the explosion.

~~~

"It was a volcano," says Rosalina. "It was a volcano." Her voice is choked and she is crying as the rumbling continues. Although it is softer now, it seems it will never end, this constant reminder of the original mountain's secret. We sit huddled in a circle, trying to cover our ears as the ash rains down (not thickly- we are too far away for much ash to fall), consoling each other and mourning Hestia.

For Hestia must be gone. She must be. I climbed one of the trees nearest us to scout out the source of the reverberating noises coming from the mountain not too long ago, and the sight that met my eyes was of ash and smoke and spewing lava, coming in massive waves and rolling down the once-mountain-now-volcano, destroying everything in its path. The top, once pointed and parting the clouds majestically, was completely blown off. And there was screaming. Screaming, coming from the mountain, and small figures running away from the lava, but it was no use because I heard the cannons. We al heard them.

I couldn't bear to witness it any more. I dropped from the trees. I told my allies. I told them that Hestia had no chance, because I'm sure she was still in her cave as the earthquake and the eruption occurred, awaiting certain death. I can imagine her, frightened as she lava consumed her. I can imagine her dying alone.

Inside, I cry for her. On the outside, my mouth is fixed in a grim line, for I can't show weakness. I have sworn to myself that I will cry no longer.

The cannons have stopped now. I counted seven, but I'm sure there were more deaths during the preeminent explosion. We will only know for sure who has died when the anthem plays tonight, even though I'm not sure I want to know. Hestia, probably. Calico and Bolt. The vast majourity of the Careers (which is beneficial to those of us who are remaining, but the Careers were still human, and I believe they still have loved ones back home, and they have still died, which calls for a day of melancholy mourning. However, I cannot cry. I cannot cry).

Now it is, for the most part, silent. There is the soft rumbling far away; the gentle sound of ash hitting the ground; the muffled sobbing of Rosalina and the hot tears falling from Tyler's eyes; my breathing, which I am trying desperately to control, to inhale and exhale calmly and evenly. But, for a brief period of time, there is no danger.

There is no danger here.

~~~

It is evening. The anthem has begun to play, filling up the silence that has wafted over our little camp. There is a hole in the canopy above us that gives us a clear view of the deep blue sky and the Capitol seal above us. And, in the midst of it all, I can't help but fear the unknown.

The first face to show is Miracle from One. She is looking down at us through her cosmetic-coated lashes, a seductive smile playing on her plump lips, her breasts threatening to fall out of the low v-neck tunic she is wearing. But it is only a picture in the sky, showing Miracle's best traits to all of those who are watching. The girl is dead now- succumbed to the lava that spewed from the volcano's gaping mouth. The miracle has died. Funny, that.

Intron and Exon and Platina are still alive, because next to appear are Lex and Lethae from Two. A burly pair- small additions to the Careers. Quite insignificant, to tell the truth. But dead. Still dead.

No one from Three. Smoke would never be such an idiot as to camp out on that mountain. Four is out of the running; Naiada, Cleat, and Frond are all in the afterlife, now. I remember Frond, passed out in the meadow, his skin red and covered in bumps from what I assume were butterfly stings. Is it possible that the lava reached the meadow, killing him as he slept in that coma of his? Or had he followed his friends to the mountain after waking again? Maintained guard position, just to die from... from what? Not that it matters. Frond is free from the arena, now.

There's the last boy from Five- I never could remember his name. Calico and Bolt from Eight. I picture them laughing during luncheon at the Training Centre, cuffing each other on the shoulders as friends would. Why does that seem to have been ages ago? It's only been a week, but the memories could be from another lifetime, they are so distant.

The other girl from Ten is dead... Lassona. She's scowling in the picture they show. She never seemed to be without a scowl. Once a tough girl, always a tough girl. In memory, in death.

And finally, last but not least, is Hestia. Grinning maniacally while lifting one hand up to smooth down her bleached blonde hair, her golden eyes twinkling merrily. Dead now. She's dead now, probably spending her time with her former boyfriend's little sister. Presumably talking her mouth off. The thought makes me smile- not cry, but smile. She's in a better place now. They all are.

Just before her face disappears from the sky, I touch three fingers to my lips and hold them out to her picture. I hope you died happy, I think. You might have been alone, but I hope you were thinking of happier things. Hemlock, Haze, Rosalina and Tyler and I, your friends and family... I hope you died happy and I hope you're happy now.

"She died a good person," Rosalina whispers as the anthem plays once again, Hestia's picture replaced by the seal of the Capitolites, people I hate, people I will always hate.

"How many of us are left now?"

Tyler is the one who answers. "Twelve. Us three and Haymitch, the rest of the Careers (Platina, the twins, Venom, and Quarren), Smoke from Three, Gracen from Seven and Tess from Nine. That makes twelve." The expression on his face is grim. Determined. Gray, if gray were an emotion and not a colour.

I turn away from the seal in the sky, gazing at Tyler and Rosalina with as much intensity as I can muster. "Twelve of us left," I say. "Eleven of us will die. Not all of us will die good people, as Hestia did. But I'm convinced that if we will die, we will die as ourselves. I will die a good person; Rosalina, you will die a good person; Tyler, you will die a good person."

Rosalina lets out a sob of agreement, throwing her arms around me, whispering reassurances in my ear. I struggle out of her grasp after a fleeting pause and turn to Tyler, hoping he will nod. Hoping he will give me the answer I seek.

He gives me an answer by turning away.

~~~

*finis de capitulum septem*


	9. 8: The Arena, Part III

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

Warnings: An abundance of filler, descriptions of Heaven and Hell (in case you don't believe in that sort of afterlife), graphic depictions of monsters, semi-majour character death scenes, crazy trauma, lots of screaming, and a confusing conversation concerning insanity.

~~~

Chapter Eight: The Arena, Part III

And they say

She's in the class A team

Stuck in her daydream

Been this way since eighteen

But lately her face seems

Slowly sinking, wasting

Crumbling like pastries

And they scream

The worst things in life come free to us

And we're all under the upper hand

Go mad for a couple grams

And we don't want to go outside

Tonight

And in a pipe we fly to the Motherland

Or sell love to another man

It's too cold outside

For angels to fly... angels to fly

For angels to fly, to fly, to fly

Or angels to die

-A Team, Ed Sheeran

~~~

When I wake up the next morning around nine o'clock, I am at peace. Something soft is draped over my body and when my eyes slowly flutter open, I am met with the sight of the emerald leaves on the trees. Sunlight streams through gaps in the foliage. Mockingjays and other songbirds call to each other in the distance. A vague thought enters my mind- this is the arena, you are in the Hunger Games- but it doesn't seem to matter any more. The danger doesn't seem to matter any more. The worst is over.

Not that the worst is over. My mind is playing tricks on me. There is much more to come; there are twelve of us left. But, for the present, nothing will effect me. Nobody will kill me. I can live in peace.

Sitting up, I feel as if someone is staring at me. Turning around, I realise that someone is staring at me- but it is friend, not foe. Tyler, who has been on watch for these past four hours, gives me a small smile from his spot leaning up against a tree. He took last shift, while Rosalina took first and I took second. Extra precaution, you know... don't want to get stabbed while we sleep, or anything.

"Morning," I say, stretching my arms above my head and yawning, kicking away the camouflage blanket I was sleeping underneath.

"Morning," Tyler replies, stowing something away in his jacket pocket. When I stare suspiciously at the pocket, he says, "It's a knife. Just in case someone caught me by surprise."

"Oh," I say, my wariness depleting rapidly as I pick up my camouflage blanket, intent on folding it.

"Say," Tyler says, nodding to my blowgun (which I hold in my right hand), "Why do you sleep with your walking stick? Not that I'm accusing you of anything, but it's a little... weird."

Surprised at his comment, I look down at my blowgun, remembering the untruths I fed the thirteen-year-old boy from the Seam. "I... I don't rightly know," I lie, tossing the "walking stick" from hand to hand, trying to act nonchalant. "I suppose I could fend off an attacker by hitting him in the head with it. Since I dislike knives and don't have another weapon, this does me well."

Tyler doesn't seem to believe me, but nods anyway, standing up. "Should we wake Rosalina?" He asks, walking over to her and nudging her arm with the toe of his boot.

"Sure," I say, and that marks the conclusion of our brief conversation. As Tyler goes on to wake his sister, I take off my pack (we all slept in them, agreeing that on the occasion that a crisis [such as a forest fire] should occur and we'd have to take off in a hurry, it would be more efficient to be ready to sprint away from the scene at the first sign of danger). Rummaging through it, I find my pack of dried beef and take a few strips for myself. I put the package back in my backpack after this, because since we split the food up evenly yesterday, it doesn't make much sense for us to share.

Taking a bite of the beef, I chew it methodically as I fish for an apple at the bottom of my pack. Snatching one and lifting it for inspection, I find that it is going bad- the surface area is seemingly all one bruise- but the fruit will still be good eating. Smiling, I close my pack and walk over to our makeshift fire pit, where Rosalina is sitting on the trunk of a dead tree (we hauled it over to the edge of the pit yesterday to use as a chair) and Tyler is attempting to build a fire with matches from his pack.

Seeing as we are in need of a fire, I must mention the weather. As we approach the end of these Games, the Gamemakers seem set on changing the weather drastically. At midday, it becomes quite hot- although not as hot as it would be if we weren't shielded by the trees. At night, it is near freezing. Not that we're complaining- I have my camouflage blanket, Rosalina has a blanket of her own, and Tyler was lucky enough to get a sleeping bag that reflects his body heat. However, this leaves the mornings quite cool, which is why a fire is necessary, even if we aren't going to use it to cook anything.

Tyler was going to attempt to kill a rabbit with his knife yesterday- he's become a pretty good shot, able to throw the projectile and hit a designated target from five feet or so away- but I advised him not to. Who knows if the rabbits are poisonous, having eaten so many toxic plants? It's best that we don't risk it. Besides, we have plenty of food now, and soon enough most of it won't be edible. My apples, for example, will rot. The bread will go so stale that we cannot bite into it without chipping a tooth. So we've decided to keep the rabbits as a last resort, for now.

"Good morning, Rosalina," I exclaim, collapsing onto the log next to her and taking a bite of my apple. It isn't the most pleasant taste, but not so terrible that I spit the fruit out.

"Isn't it?" She says, while taking off her pack and pulling out a loaf of bread. Apparently she is feeling as tranquil as I. "For some reason, I'm getting the notion that nothing bad will happen today. No injuries, no death. A much-needed break in the midst of turmoil."

"Well," I reply, shaking my head when she offers me a half of the loaf, "The Games aren't known for being boring, but we all know that there are off days. Let's enjoy it while we can. Eventually, shit's going to go down; it's unavoidable."

Rosalina laughs and takes a bite of her loaf, wincing as her teeth struggle to rip the piece off. She swallows before she agrees with me, and then comments on the bread's staleness. "Do you think that if I dipped it in water for thirty seconds it would soften?" She inquires, staring pointedly at the loaf.

"Eww, no," I say, pulling a face. "Then it'd be all soggy. Just take your time to eat it… the bread's not going to run away from you."

Tyler, from his spot next to the pile of sticks he's attempting to light, looks up. "Don't listen to Maysilee, Rosalina," he says, using a joking tone. "She could be wrong. Are we really going to trust the Gamemakers not to put a pair of legs on the thing and let it go sprinting in the other direction?" And then, as Rosalina lets out a snort, he strikes the next match on the side of the paper box and throws it into the centre of the cone-shaped pile. The fire is blazing in under a minute, and I hold my hands over the flames, grateful for the warmth, and wondering how long that warmth I am feeling will last.

Days, I hope, but we know that off days always end.

~~~

After a few hours, a thought strikes me, and I cannot shake it off. It is the memory of Maysilee Brave, my aunt, and her Games. The story begins to haunt me: the story of how she stayed in the same camp for days until the boy from Ten finally found her. It is quite frightening, and I imagine Platina and whatever Careers are with her running across our camp, torturing and killing us one by one. Of course, I don't think it will happen today- this is an off day- but could it occur tonight? Tomorrow? I can't be sure. I can't be sure we're safe.

And so I suggest to Rosalina and Tyler that we move on. Rosalina's been camped out here since just after the bloodbath (from what I have determined), and I got here a day ago. If Tyler found the camp so easily yesterday, then somebody else is bound to discover the small clearing eventually. Tyler agrees with me in under a minute of persuasion, but Rosalina is not so easily swayed. She likes it here- she's become attached to the area. She doesn't want to find somewhere else to temporarily make camp.

"The thing that's different between you and me, among other things," she says, "is that you're nomadic. You have to move around or else you don't feel safe. I, on the other hand, rather like to turn a certain spot into my permanent residence. I'm not moving. I'm not. Go on without me."

But of course I can't go on without Rosalina, and I tell her this, before relating Maysilee Brave's tragic death to my two listeners. It opens up Rosalina's mind, so to speak, and suddenly she's all for my plan. "Let's move, then- but how can you be sure we won't run into anyone?"

"I'm not sure," I say.

"Which makes it all the more fun," Tyler concludes, before drizzling a bit of water over our fire and stomping on it until it's nothing but a pile of charred sticks and burnt ground and white ash. Which reminds me of the volcano explosion yesterday, and the fine layer of ash that covers the ground. Running my fingers through my short hair, I can feel the fine, gritty particles, and I grimace. The cause of Hestia's death is in my hair.

The hair that she cut off.

In search of something to distract myself from Hestia, I walk over to a pile of dead leaves underneath a maple tree. Scooping them up, I walk over to the once-fire and carefully place the leaves over the blackened spot, furthermore moving the leaves around with my boot-covered feet until it looks presentable. Then, Tyler and I lift separate ends of the log and haul it into a dense patch of woods, depositing it there. Leave no trace, I think. Don't want tributes putting two and two together and then finding the path we took to exit the camp. We have to be as secretive as possible.

At least we have time to be secretive. As I said, it's an off day.

We gather up the things that we didn't have on us, picking the blankets up off the ground and shaking them to clear away the dirt and leaves before folding them and placing them inside our packs. Rosalina takes the branch-plank from its place propped up against an apple tree and carries it by her side. And then we make our exit, making sure we have everything, walking to the edge of the clearing and looking back once more. Rosalina blows a kiss, which makes Tyler laugh. I shake my head and turn around, stepping into unknown territory, beginning the walk to nowhere.

Let the exertion commence!

~~~

At midday, we rest. Walking for hours isn't pleasant when the sun is beginning to beat through the trees, turning the entire forest into a large sauna (something I've only ever seen when visiting George Undersee's house at a young age- they have an old, wooden sauna in their backyard). Because of the heat, I pity everyone and everything here except for the banana trees- it's no wonder they're thriving. There's also no wondering about the large range of tree varieties here in the arena. What with the strange weather, everything from banana trees to elms and oaks to pines are acceptable. And I'm not an idiot- I know these sort of trees don't belong together. It's not natural.

Then again, nothing in this arena is natural.

We sit on the ground to rest, for there aren't any fallen logs around, and there's no point in wasting time by searching. We don't concern ourselves with sharing water bottles, since we've divided the fluids up evenly as well. I down half a bottle before I even know what I'm doing, and then take a couple sips before hesitantly putting it away. Rosalina is more conservative, but I can tell she's as thirsty as the rest of us. Tyler simply drinks the entirety of one of his water skins. There goes that. At the rate he's going, he'll run out before next rain.

If there is a next rain.

For some reason, the thought of rain makes me think of Haymitch. I haven't thought about Haymitch for days. I've been too caught up in the moment to think of things other than what is immediately happening around me, focusing too much on the outcome of these Games than those I miss and those I love. I miss Myra, I love Myra, and yet her memory has had nothing but negative affect on me. I miss Father, I love father, but I see him nowhere in my future- just in my past. I miss Fauna, I love Fauna, and Fauna hasn't appeared in my contemplations because she doesn't matter here and now. In fact, Fauna never had much impact on my life, other than teaching me all I know about herbs and plants. Fauna was just a girl that made me happy. I can survive without her, and she can survive without me. She can be happy without me.

I miss Haymitch, I love Haymitch, and I probably should wonder about Haymitch because I doubt I'll ever see him again and chances are he'll die. I don't want him to die, but death is inevitable here- even for the winner. Everything is inevitable. Everything, everything, everything.

"Why are you singing?" Tyler's voice breaks through my musings. "This is not the time and place for singing."

"I was singing?" I ask him, surprised.

"Yes," says Rosalina. "You were singing 'Brace Yourself'."

Suddenly, I want to cry. But I don't cry, because I can't show that my mind is fragile. I don't cry, because I have to act unafraid. It all comes down to acting, doesn't it? I have to be brave, even if I'm not. I have to put on a show, even if I don't want to. "The time and place for singing 'Brace Yourself' can be anytime and anywhere," I tell Tyler. "It fits in every situation I am involved in in these Games because it reflects me- reflects what I am feeling."

"You are feeling as if you want to commit suicide?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "I don't expect you to get it, Tyler. It reflects me because I'm always bracing myself for… for something. But I can't ever brace myself for what is to come." I shake my head, sighing, and run my fingers through my hair. "I can't put it into words. I think I'm going insane. No- I know I'm going insane. I thought I could kill, and then I killed those two boys, and… it just about destroyed me."

There is a moment of silence in which Tyler simply looks perplexed, and then Rosalina speaks. "I think I get it," she murmurs. "You're bracing yourself for things you simply cannot brace yourself for. As you said, you tell yourself you can kill, but when you do kill, it all falls apart. You tell yourself you can die- will die- but when death comes, you won't be ready. And you're slowly killing yourself over it. No pun intended."

Shocked at her accurate evaluation, I nod, but Tyler doesn't seem to get it. "Why kill yourself over a song? Don't you want to live, Maysilee? Isn't that the entire point of these Games: to live- to survive? Why would you tell yourself that you can die if you are doing everything you can to live?"

Before I can tell him to forget it, Rosalina leans over to whisper in his ear. A smirk lights up his features when he pulls away. "Aha. I get it now. I get it all now. Your interviews and those meaningful looks and all that drama in which he totally molested you in the hallway? Dude. Why didn't I get that sooner? Why didn't somebody tell me sooner? I can keep a secret, Maysilee."

I just roll my eyes, exasperated, and stand up, gesturing that we should get moving. Rosalina nods and Tyler jumps to his feet, smiling plainly for the first time in the arena (that I've seen, anyway). Soon enough we are taking off, myself walking while Rosalina apparently drifts around (like she's on a cloud) and Tyler travels in leaps and bounds, occasionally throwing me smirking glances. Each time, I reach over and poke him on the forehead, shaking my head.

I think I can guess what she told him.

~~~

Around two o'clock, we hear screaming. The distinctively male shouts come from behind us, and I instantly jump to conclusions: It'sHaymitchit'sHaymitchit'sHaymitch. But it's not Haymitch- it's no one I know- and the long, drawn-out yells cease almost as quickly as they began. Confused, we stop in our tracks, sharing glances, waiting for the boom of a cannon. No cannon is heard, however, even in the next five minutes of silence. It's an off day; there will be no death; but we still wonder about the screams.

"Who do you think that was?" Asks Rosalina, looking terrified.

Tyler, always one to jump into calculations, instantly begins to check off people out loud, counting on his fingers as he mentions each name. "It's not Haymitch, for sure, and there'd be no reason for any of the Careers to scream like that, ruling out the DNA twins-" (our nickname for Intron and Exon) "-and Quarren. It's not us three, or Platina, Venom, Gracen, or Tess, which equals eleven… so it's obviously-"

"Smoke," we all say in tandem, staring at each other, wide-eyed.

"But why would Smoke scream like that?" I wonder.

"Well," says Tyler, considering it, "He could have been chased. Or he could have had a nightmare and woke up. Or he stuck his hand into acid and it burned off. Or maybe the Careers stuck him with a pointy object and he got away. Or maybe he's eaten a fruit that kills you slowly, and the pain climaxed suddenly, and now he's unconscious. Or possibly-"

"Okay, okay," I laugh, reaching over to ruffle his hair. "I think we get it. It could have been anything. To summarise: something happened, but Smoke's not dead."

"Is that a good thing, or a bad thing?" Asks Rosalina.

We don't answer her, because to us, it is a bad thing- we must wish others to die to live ourselves- but then again, it is a good thing, because by human nature, we do not wish others to die. If one dies in these Games, we mourn them, but at the same time we feel a sense of relief, because it's one step closer to home. There's no good answer to the question that will leave us without guilt. And so we walk away, into the woods, and come to our own conclusions about Rosalina's inquiry.

I do not know what Rosalina thinks. I do not know what Tyler thinks. But, after a string of lengthy moments in which I mull over the thoughts in my mind, I realise that to me, it's a good thing. Smoke's nonexistent cannon is a good thing. I don't want Smoke to die. I don't want Platina to die, or Venom, or Intron or Exon or Quarren or Gracen or Tess or Rosalina or Tyler or Haymitch and, frankly, I don't want to die myself. I don't want anyone to die.

I. Don't. Want. Anyone. To. Die.

~~~

We give up on our walking as dusk approaches and the weather begins to cool. Crickets and other varieties of insect commence with their peaceful chirping and owls awake, hooting into the night. The only sounds our trio creates are our deep breaths and the soft pitter-pattering of our footfalls as we search for a place to make camp. We are in a dense part of the woods, so it takes us much time to find a clearing big enough to fit the three of us- and even when we do, it is ringed in flowers, and not a hundred metres away from a spring.

Poisonous flowers. An acid spring.

"What beautiful flowers!" Rosalina exclaims as she sees them. "Maysilee, aren't they pretty?"

"Don't touch them," I warn her hastily as she leans down to examine one. "They're toxic. They'll kill you in an instant, like everything else here in this arena."

Rosalina's extended hand shrinks back, and she visibly sighs, walking back to us. "I know. I know. I just want to see something pretty again. Everything in here's pretty, but it's too pretty- and at the core, it's all dangerous. Why did they have to do this to us? Why?" A tear glistens as it falls down her cheek. "Why do they have to pretend it's pretty when it's not?"

"Tactics," says Tyler bluntly, and without compassion. "It's one of the Gamemakers' tactics. They can kill people faster with deception. After all, it's a Quarter Quell- they had to be cruel when it came to setting construction."

Nothing is said more on the matter. Twilight falls, along with a blanket of cold, and we're all shivering as we lay out our blankets and sleeping bags. Tyler lights another fire- he's become remarkably good at it- and we sit around it, warming our hands. Yes, I am aware that in the darkness, the fire is a beacon of light for any near tributes seeking to kill us, but we are prepared to defend ourselves, and our eyes and ears are open. We won't go down without a fight, anyhow.

I drink the other half of my water bottle and finish off the rest of my beef strips, savouring each bite until the dried meat has completely disappeared into my mouth. Then, I eat the rest of my apples, because they won't be good eating by tomorrow; what with their constant practice of banging into things inside my pack while I journey from place to place. When Rosalina finally admits her fatigue and Tyler agrees that we must get some sleep soon, I'm more full then I've been in this arena in days. Soon, however, I'll have to ration my food. There's just stale bread, dried fruit, and one more package of beef (picked up during my Cornucopia raid) left. Not to mention two full water bottles, an empty skin, and a bowl.

It's my turn for first watch (since we've developed a system… Rosalina was first last night, so she will be last tonight, and I will be first tonight, since I took middle shift yesterday). Therefore, I pull my camouflage blanket over my legs to keep out the cold and lean against a tree next to the fire, my intentions to tend to it. Meanwhile, Tyler climbs into his sleeping bag and Rosalina wraps herself in her blanket. There's rustling as they shift into comfortable positions, and then the anthem chooses this time to light up the sky. There are no deaths today, so faces are absent- only the annoyingly loud tune of the Captiol's anthem greets us.

"Why do they play it twice?" Tyler asks out of the blue, directing his question towards the skies.

"To make sure we have it memorised," I reply sarcastically. "I think they assume we should begin to sing their anthem when we become Victor- in a, 'I've just killed someone, let me show my Capitol pride!' gesture. They repeat it so the tune will stick soundly in our heads, as to assure themselves we won't stray off pitch during our performance."

Tyler laughs, sitting up. "Too bad I'm a terrible vocalist."

"Are you implying, Tyler, that you shall be entitled Victor?"

"Soon enough," he smirks.

Before I can figure out what to make of this, he has fallen asleep, his snoring accentuating the crickets' chirping and Rosalina's even breaths as she, too, lies unconscious. I am left wondering at his words as I take up a stick and stir around the burnt branches of the fire, reveling in the layer of quiet peace that surrounds me.

And then descends a sense of foreboding. There is no reason for it- I am probably just paranoid. I think of Smoke's screams earlier, wondering if they were a warning. I think of Tyler and his knife this morning, and how his explanation for it being out was exactly what I wanted to hear. I think of Maysilee Brave, and staying in one place. I think of the clearing we stay in- ringed in poison, next to acid, close to toxin, in the midst of a venomous arena.

We're not safe anywhere, but this place seems to be more treacherous than the rest. I simply hope that we can depart quickly in the morning, leaving this place and finding another that bodes well with my paranoia.

~~~

A couple hours later- four, I hope, because that's the approximate amount of time we must each keep watch for- I go to wake Tyler, too fatigued to keep my eyes open. I stumble over to the place where he sleeps and shake his shoulder, mumbling something along the lines of "Your turn" (although I'm sure my words are too incoherent to be able to discern). Tyler wakes easily and nods at me, whispering that I should get to sleep, to which I smile and collapse a few feet from him, pulling my blanket over myself and drifting off instantly.

My dream is lovely. I am lying in a meadow, but it isn't the poisonous meadow of the arena (which is probably covered in igneous rock after the volcano's eruption, now that I think about it). The grass is wilted, taking on a drab shade of green-gold-brown and drooping towards the hardened earth in a gloomy fashion. Patches of it are trampled from feet of the past, giving the meadow a weathered look. Pathetic dandelions, in their final stage of life, litter the ground. Looking to my left, there is no volcano. Looking to my right, there is no woods. The meadow stretches on forever, and above it, the sky is a dreary shade of gray, covered in a fine layer of rain clouds.

I look up at it joyously, for I haven't had the pleasure to stay in such a beautiful place for what seems like weeks.

I lie on the ground in the position you would take on to form a snow angel: my arms extended away from my sides slightly, palms facing up; my legs open, my feet turned outwards. The grass crunches slightly as I lean my head back into it, but the sound isn't unpleasant, for it makes me giggle. This is wonderful- so wonderful. I feel free, I feel safe, I feel as if I have been relieved from a contamination. The arena was my contamination, but now it is in the past; in my future, maybe, but not in the present.

Lifting my hand, I feel for the hem of the clothing I am wearing, stroking the soft material. The long-sleeved dress flows around me, its white cotton fabric providing the comfort of a favourite nightgown. It's like something an angel would wear. In fact, I do feel angelic, with my hair so silky smooth- and long again! Long again!- and my lips stretched out in a wide grin. I'm laughing, even. Laughing. Why am I laughing?

Looking to my left, I am met with the source of my laughter. Rosalina is next to me, lying on the ground in the same position as I, smiling gently. She's wearing an identical dress and her glossy, raven hair is pulled back in an intricate style of woven braids. Her cheeks are flushed, her lips plump, her entire being relaxed and carefree. She looks stunning. Absolutely stunning.

"That was the most ridiculous joke," I tell her, even though I cannot remember what the joke was.

"I've told it so many times I don't even find it funny any more," she admits. "But it makes others laugh. That's why I tell it."

We look up at the sky for a while longer, and we are quiet, basking in tranquility. It's windy, so the grass rustles in the breeze, and my hair is occasionally caught up with it. A smile plays at my lips as I roll over on my side, facing Rosalina, and she does the same. "Isn't it pretty?" Rosalina asks me. "I haven't seen something so pretty in ages. I sure wish Tyler were here."

Before I can reply, a drop of water hits my cheek, and I look up at the sky, startled. Another drop hits my forehead, and then my leg, and finally it's raining. Gleeful, we stand, frolicking in the warm summer shower, giggling as the raindrops touch our cheeks and we become soaked to the bone (for there is no shelter to retreat to). Eventually, after chasing each other around like toddlers playing in a sprinkler, we collapse to the ground once again, our dresses sticking to our skin. They've become translucent, as they are of white fabric, but neither of us cares.

The sun peeks out from behind a break in the clouds, and looking up, a rainbow overtakes the sky. The colours are vibrant and beautiful, but not artificially so. It's all natural in this small world. Its flaws are perfect- the dying grass is marvelous- my smile is ceaseless. "It feels as if we're in heaven," I tell Rosalina, sitting cross-legged and plucking a blade of grass from the ground, rubbing it between my fingers.

"We are in Heaven, Maysilee," she tells me, looking confused.

"We are?" I ask, startled, dropping the blade of grass and looking up at the rainbow again. Is that why this meadow is so lovely? Am I dead? Is Rosalina dead? "Are we dead? Who killed us? And where is Tyler- is he alive? What about Haymitch?"

Rosalina lets out a short laugh of amazement. "Don't you remember your death? I remember mine. It is vivid in my memory, as are all of the memories of the arena." She frowns. "And no, silly, Tyler isn't alive. Tyler went to Hell. Tyler's burning at the stake far below us and it's all your fault." Rosalina shakes her head and smiles again. "But we're in Heaven. Isn't it nice here? Aren't you relieved that you were let off the hook? Well, I suppose the jury let you free since you killed my demonic 'brother,' but-"

"Wait. Wait. Wait!" I shout, before she can continue. "What happened? Why don't I remember? Why do you say I killed Tyler? Why is Tyler demonic?"

"Because you did kill Tyler, silly," Rosalina laughs lightly, but her eyebrows are knit in puzzlement. "You killed Tyler because he was plotting to murder me all along. What is the reason for your sudden amnesia?"

"How should I know?" I ask impatiently. We have both stood up and are facing one another, now, arms crossed. Rosalina's hair whips in the wind, as does mine, forming a mass of black and blonde tendrils that surround our heads. "It's not like I remember anything…"

My sentence trails off suddenly as I turn my gaze from her face and glance over her shoulder. The sight makes me scream. Tyler is wielding a knife, walking slowly toward us- but he is not Tyler, exactly. It is Tyler's face, but his arms are long and fleshy and boneless, like the tentacles of an octopus but without the suction cups, and the end of one curls around the knife like a monkey's tail curls around a branch, therefore squeezing it tightly. His legs are gone, replaced by five metal rods, bent just so to look as if they belong to a mechanical spider- he scuttles forward on them without making a sound. He is without clothes, and instead his wild, curly hair has grown long; so long that it wraps around his torso, hiding what could be skin but may not be skin, preserving his dignity (if he has dignity left) in a dark cloak.

During this assessment, I continue to scream, frightened at what a monster he has become and wondering what he is doing here and unable to form one coherent thought as Tyler scuttles forward- slowly, slowly. Rosalina turns around and screams too, and our shrill cries mix to become one single, ever-lasting note of terror. We try to back away, but we are paralysed in fear, unable to escape from Tyler- no, it's not Tyler, but it's a monster. It's a monster. Or maybe the monster is Tyler, and it has been Tyler all along.

His face is dirty, his eyes wild, his lips cracked as he opens his mouth and speaks in a rough, grating tone: "Sister, at last." His eyes catch hold of Rosalina's as I watch him quicken his pace- my mouth is open and I'm still screaming- and so is Rosalina. Then, the tentacle-arm with the knife begins to grow, extending quickly until it reaches Rosalina's heart, plunging the knife into it. Her screaming ends, but I am still screaming, still gaping, still crying. I tear my eyes away from the sight and look up at the rainbow; look up at the pretty colours.

And I think, if this is Heaven, I would rather be alive.

Suddenly, Tyler is gone, and so is Rosalina's corpse. But I'm still in the beautiful meadow, there's still a rainbow in the sky, and I'm still screaming. As I sink to my knees in despair, I press my hands to my eyes, effectively shutting out the world- shutting out Heaven. Everything grows dark, and there are still screams piercing the air, but I'm not screaming any more. It's someone else. Someone else is screaming.

It's Rosalina.

It's Rosalina.

My eyes fly open, but it is still dark here in the arena, so I cannot see a thing. For a moment, I am completely disoriented, because I know that it's Rosalina screaming- but that was in the dream, wasn't it? Why would she be screaming now? The questions flood my mind and it's so dark, so dark that I feel like I am drowning in a sea of coal, unable to escape, with no way to get out. There's no way out because the only light is in Tyler's pack. And I can't get to Tyler's pack because I can't move, and I can't move because something's happening to Rosalina less than five feet from me, and I can't go to Rosalina because whatever is hurting her is going to hurt me, too. And so I lay paralysed and open my ears to something other than the screaming- to someone other than the screaming.

And when I hear Tyler's voice, I panic, because the monster is still in my mind and I know that he is a demon.

The words drift towards me. "Pathetic. It's just your stomach. Absolutely pathetic." The screams drown out his next words, and I don't understand how Rosalina could have gone on this long without breath. He's done something to her. I know he's done something to her. I know he's done something and I don't know what to do! I don't! She's dying and we're in the Hunger Games and she's my friend and maybe she's not dying but something's happening. Maybe Tyler's poisoned her in her sleep… or stepped on her stomach… or stabbed it... but whatever it is I have to do something quick, and how can I when I'm paralysed, lying on the ground?

Another thought strikes me: if he's just injured Rosalina, what will he do to me?

There shuffling, and it's coming closer, and Rosalina's screams are starting to die away, but that doesn't matter. Adrenaline is pumping through my veins and I'm hysterical and I think Tyler's walking in my direction, but I'm not sure. It's so dark. It's so dark. For some reason, this makes me want to laugh, because Tyler Dark has acted upon his insane paranoia at night. But I can't laugh, because he still thinks I'm asleep. He thinks I'm asleep and defenseless. Isn't that right? Isn't that right?

Well, buddy, you don't know that I'm awake and I have a blowgun at my side.

He's coming over to kill me, right? Or am I paranoid? Is it the dream that has affected me? Or maybe it's not Tyler at all. …But of course it's Tyler, because that was his voice, wasn't it? Or am I hallucinating? Or am I dreaming? Is this a dream, and Heaven real, and am I dead, or am I alive? I can't tell because I'm surrounded by darkness. I'm dying in the mines because I forgot to send a canary down before me.

I used to have a canary. Her name was Flora. I gave her to Fauna, who is my best friend. Rather, was my best friend, because she doesn't mar here. I'm going to die now. Or not. Or maybe I'll kill Tyler with my blowgun which he thinks is a walking stick. Tyler the demon. Tyler the monster with tentacle arms and metal spider legs and long curly hair. Tyler who has killed Rosalina. Maybe. Or maybe not. She isn't dead yet- there are still gasps to my right. I am so confused. I am so confused.

A shadow falls over me, which strikes me odd, because it is so dark that only something darker could overtake it. Who could it be but Tyler Dark? The shadow kneels next to me and then something is being raised above my chest. "I have to. I have to," he mutters, and then the thing above me- his arm, his regular arm, equipped with a knife, pulls back and then comes toward my chest. Quickly, so quickly, I grab at the shadow and catch his wrist before the knife can impale my heart, and then raise my blowgun to just below my lips, pointing it at the direction in which his neck should be.

"You move, I kill you," I tell him, my voice harsh and cold.

"I am fighting," he says, his tone as unforgiving as mine. "I am strong, I can fight, I will win. It's all a game, Maysilee. You told me yourself that I had a choice. I've chosen."

I stare at the shadow boy above me, and I want to cry. "You have chosen wrong," I say sadly. "You have chosen to become a monster. To become a demon. You will burn in Hell, Tyler- I have seen it. And no one as corrupt as you deserves to live."

"But I am fighting to live." I can almost see him smile in the darkness. "I'm going to live, I'm going to be Victor, and you cannot stop me. It will all turn out okay."

"What did you do to your sister?" I ask him.

"I have killed her. I have stabbed her in her stomach. She will bleed out soon," he laughs.

"What do you think I will do to you?" I ask him.

"It is not what you will do to me, Maysilee. Vice versa. You are unarmed. You cannot kill me, but I can quickly dispose of you- furthermore going on to become Victor. I'm a crowd favourite, aren't I? I got that ten in training. I got that ten in training because I killed my sister; because I told them I would kill my sister. And I'll kill you, Maysilee- and it won't be a quick death."

Gaping at the sudden abundance of knowledge, my hands tighten on his wrist and the blowgun, respectively. "You are immoral. You are wicked. You are insane, Tyler Dark, and you are wrong for thinking that you are invincible." I shift the blowgun upwards slightly and let out a short exhale, watching as the tiny dart, black against black, travels through space and sticks in his neck. It's faster that way, because his neck is exposed. In no time, Tyler is coughing into his hands- it's the same poison I murdered Willie with- and kneeling over next to me, dead. A cannon booms.

The last word I said to him was "invincible." Irony seems to play as much part in these Games as death does; I see that now. I understand why people laugh after committing homicide, because the irony is affecting them. For example, many of us from the outer districts despise the Careers for murdering, and tell ourselves we will never be like them, but if we survive the end of the Games, then we are hypocrites. You have to kill to win the Games. It's a known fact. And, in turn, all of the Victors have had vivid experience with irony.

I suppose they'd all be very good literature teachers.

I do not feel remorse for my kill, nor do I take the time to feel at all. Instead, I am standing and running over to Rosalina- my eyes have adjusted to the night, somewhat- and sitting next to her. Her breathing is shallow and her hands are pressed to her stomach, most likely to hold in her insides. She won't make it, for Tyler has been cruel. But she'll last a while longer.

"Rosalina," I say. "Rosalina, you can hear me, can't you?"

"Yes," she replies, her voice raspy from screaming. "He didn't… cut off my ears... as far as I can tell."

"Rosalina…" I choke back a sob, because I can't cry here. I can't show weakness. "I'm sorry. If I had known- I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

She lifts one hand off her stomach and touches my face slightly. Her fingers are sticky with blood but it doesn't matter. "Don't be." I can hear the smile in her voice. "I have ears… I could hear. He's dead. Heard… the cannon. Maybe… in death… he won't be… so corrupt." She takes in a deep breath. "Don't be sad… I'm going now. Would have died sometime… anyway. Good thing… I'm going with him? Maybe."

"If you want it to be," I touch her face as well, smoothing the worried crease between her eyebrows. "Everything will be all right now. You'll go up to Heaven with Tyler, and he'll love you, and you'll love him back." I'm lying through my teeth, but it's all for her benefit. I want Rosalina to have a good death. "And Heaven will be beautiful. It's a large meadow, but it has all the flaws the meadow in the arena didn't. The grass is limp, the dandelions are wilted, and there's wind and rain, and rainbows, even. It's pretty there."

"Pretty…" she whispers. "How do you know?"

I lean down and kiss her forehead. "I saw it in a dream," I whisper back. "I saw you, dressed in a white gown, frolicking in a sun shower as the raindrops hit your nose. You were laughing and smiling and telling jokes. You were happy, Rosalina. It's time for you to be happy now."

"Happy…" her breaths are coming in short bursts now. Suddenly, she takes a hand off her wound and grabs my wrist. "I don't want to die… because of him. I want to die… on my own terms. I don't want… him to have… killed me."

I lift her hand and place it back on her wound. "How do you want to die, Rosalina?" I ask her.

"Flowers. I want to die in the flowers," she says.

She's the same height as me and weighs a bit less, despite being two years my elder, so it isn't impossible to carry her to the flowers that ring the outside of the clearing. I somehow manage it, holding my breath as I place her in the midst of the poisonous plants. It's the sort of death you get in a fairy tale. It suits Rosalina. She deserves to be in a fairy tale. She deserves to have everything she ever wanted.

"Rosalina," I tell her, in one last vow, "If I make it home, I'll pay for your father's lung treatment."

"Then make it home," are her last words, before she falls unconscious.

And then the sound of a cannon pierces the night, and all is silent. I stand alone in a clearing, accompanied by blankets, supplies, and the two dead corpses of my allies: one foe, one friend. One male, one female. One brother, one sister. One Tyler, one Rosalina. Two Darks, asleep in the darkness.

~~~

She's clawing my face off. Myra has taken a liking to clawing my face off, I think. She likes to draw blood- to make me cry. But I'm not crying now. I won't let myself cry. I will deal with Myra's sharp, jagged nails, rough from a habit of biting them when they grow too long, but I can't show weakness. Unless screaming counts as a weakness. I just cannot stop screaming.

My voice died long ago. The shouts are mere whispers now, emitting from my mouth in long breaths, waves of torture falling upon me for minutes and hours and maybe even days. I can't remember any more. I can't remember if the sun's gone up or down, or if the anthem has played or not played, or if the trees are changing or if I'm just running in circles. It doesn't really matter. I keep running into them, anyway. I run into the trees when I'm not watching where I'm going, but instead envisioning Rosalina's body, dead in the flowers. Not that I ever saw her clearly. I left before the light took over.

I wanted them to forever be shrouded in darkness.

Yes, I saw the hovercraft pick them up. The Gamemakers provided holes in the trees. How nice of them. I saw Rosalina's limp body, and her mane of dark hair that swung in empty air, her hands dangling by her sides. I saw Tyler's body, with his head of curly black hair and the hand still clutching the dagger he owned. He wasn't a monster when I saw him, but I know that somewhere, in the figurative place below me, he is a demon. Burning at the stake, screaming, his metal legs scrambling to get away and his tentacle arms wrapping around the necks of those who get to close. The torturer tortured for eternity.

I think that was when I started screaming- when I began to imagine this (yes, imagine… because it's real, but it's also all in my head). However, I can't remember any more. I can't even remember when Myra started screaming, or when Myra began to claw at my face. What's the point of remembering when it's all a bad dream? Even though it's not a dream- it's real. It's real. And I'm being contradictory.

Suddenly, I am struck with an idea, and I reach up and grab Myra's hands. She's not clawing my face any more- in fact, she's not there at all. Huh. Lowering my hands, I look around. I'm living in a wonderland of trees. It's the arena, isn't it? The poisonous arena. The arena where Rosalina and Tyler died. I'm screaming once more, even though I didn't know I'd stopped. The shrieks are riddled with a new vigor, because I am imagining them again. I'm imagining them again.

Out of my peripheral vision, I see something pink. I shriek continuously as I turn to it, catching a glimpse of feathers and a long beak. It's some sort of bird. Why is there a bird watching me? Confused, my eyes follow it, watching the pink feathers appear and disappear through the trees every once in a while, too far away to appear fully.

The sight makes me look down at my pin- the pin on my chest. The mockingjay pin. The mockingjay pin that, on the train, twirled around and around my fingers until it dropped to the ground and rolled away. After she warned me about the birds. Stay away from the birds, Maysilee. Stay away from the birds.

Turning, I run. Run, run, run away from the pink bird. I run into trees, but I keep going. I have to stay away. I have to stay away from my imagination, stay away from insanity, stay away from the birds. Stay away from Rosalina and Tyler's ghosts, who have come back to haunt me. Who have come back to murder me via bird. A pink bird, like the colour of candy floss back in our sweet shop.

Quite frankly, I could use a dark chocolate truffle right now. Or something else sweet- maybe one of those fushia lollipops. I was the only one that liked those, although they weren't my favourite. The truffles were. And now there'll be no one left to eat the dark chocolate truffles and the fushia lollipops. Father might stop selling them. Now, that's a disappointment.

My legs carry me everywhere. I run in one direction, and then double back, wondering where I am. Sometimes I wish I could have a map, because this forest is simply massive. Not that a map would help, because everything is the same. Everything is repetitive. Elm, apple, ash, oak, banana, pine, willow. Elm, apple, ash, oak, banana, pine, willow. Bush, bush, bush, another bush, and another bush. Hey, there's a bush! Dead fruit plus dead fruit equals two dead fruits. I dropkick them both. They sail away into the trees. So many trees.

Maybe I'm running in circles. No, that can't be right, because there's a clearing. I haven't come across such a large clearing yet! Excited, my screaming having ended a while ago, I approach it, bursting through the tree line and coming across a rocky area with a small bluish-clear area in the middle. Water. It's water. Walking over to it, I kneel next to the lone pool- I wonder why it's here- and stare into its depths. I can see a girl there. She isn't very pretty. She has eyes that match the colour of the pool and hair like straw attached to her scalp, matted and ending around her shoulders. She has a long nose that's not exactly flattering, and a long neck that looks even worse with the new and (I assume) hateful haircut. She has cracked lips that definitely don't help her features stand out. To top it all off, there's something reddish brown on her left cheek. What is it? What is it?

Blood. Dried blood.

I observe the situation curiously, leaning closer to make out the outline of the blood. The poor girl. Does she have a cut on her cheek? No, I don't think so- the blood pattern is a bit off. Where did that blood come from? It seems to have been there for a few hours, or even longer. She must not have much water to wash it off with. Definitely not enough to take a much-needed bath. Her hair is stringy and her face is dirty and she looks very thirsty. I wonder why that is. She's in the water, after all. She lives in the water.

Or maybe she doesn't live in the water at all. Maybe she's me.

To confirm this, I reach my hand up to touch my cheek. Something flakes off. I lower my hand and stare at my fingers, which are now slightly red. The girl in the water imitates me, reaching up her hand to brush off some of the dried blood and gazing at her fingers in puzzlement. She looks up at me right when I do. The shock on her features is impressive. She looks so much like me. She is me. The blood on my face is Rosalina's. Rosalina who is dead.

Screaming, I turn in the other direction, trying to erase the image of the girl from the water. But when I look back, she's still there. I try to run away and return, but even when I look into the pool again, she's still there. I'm still there. Frustrated, I reach down to wipe her face away- let me look at the pool of water in peace, damn it!- but right when my hand touches the water, I pull it back, screeching in surprise. It burns. Oh, Snow, it burns like nothing else and the tips of my fingers are charring away and I've never felt something hurt so much in my life. Stop the pain! Stop the pain!

I'm screaming loudly now- as loudly as I can with a hoarse voice, that is. I need medical attention. I need medical attention because the water is acid and this entire arena is poisonous and I'm the only one left alive! Right? Right? I'm Victor, am I not? Oh, wait- there's nine others left. Silly me. So why am I screaming if there's others that will kill me? I am such an idiot. But I can't stop. I can't stop screaming. Oh, no. Oh, for Panem's sake, why does it feel like my mouth isn't attached to my body? Am I going insane?

Yes, I'm going insane- I am insane. I am definitely insane because there's a boy here now, and he's walking towards me. Why is he walking towards me? Is he planning to kill me? But I'm hallucinating- that's right. So why do my ears deceive me? Why can I hear him muttering under his breath? "Stop it," he says. "Stop screaming. If you scream, the smoke will die. I am the smoke. If you scream, I will die. Stop it, stop it, stop it."

I look up at him. He has black hair and his pallid face is thin and his glasses only have one temple. His eyes are crazy. Very, very crazy. Just about as crazy as mine are. Immediately, I'm not shrieking any more, and instead, I examine the boy, taking in his ripped clothes and his half-melted shoes, the sword he clutches in one hand and a circular disk with a blinking light on it that he holds in the other (it must be his district token, like the mockingjay is my district token, even though it's not a preferable district token if I'm supposed to stay away from the birds).

"Mad. I'm screaming because I'm mad," I say.

"We're all mad here," Smoke replies. "We're all mad everywhere. It's a balance. Only trauma tips the scale. You've been through trauma, haven't you? It's why you are screaming. It's why you think you cannot stop screaming. But you can stop screaming. It has been done. I have done it."

"I have killed three boys," I say, defensive. "Who have you killed? No one, I am assuming." He doesn't seem the sort to murder. Although mysterious Smoke doesn't seem the sort to be predictable, either.

"The point of these Games is to kill. I haven't killed- that's right. I don't want to kill. But I will kill. I will kill him. He will die." He peers at me through his broken spectacles. "I've been traumatised because I am considering his death. Soon I'll decide. In the meantime, however, you aren't allowed to murder my victim."

"I won't. I promise. But… kill who?" I ask, because there's no other way to reply to that.

"The smoke. The smoke," he mutters, shuffling his feet. "Have a nice day- or else, as nice as it can get. I'm sorry for the siblings. I'm sorry I'm not giving you freedom. However, I don't kill killers. I only kill those who are currently killing." And then he walks away, waving his sword in a silent farewell, and I am left staring at the spot where he disappears into the woods.

Smoke is a thousand times more intelligent and wise than I will ever be. I don't even know how old he is. Younger than I. He must be younger than I. Younger than I and sent to his death in a poisonous arena. And, of course, he has been affected by the arena, as I have been. He's gone mad- I couldn't comprehend half of his words. But as he said, we're all mad here.

We're all mad everywhere.

~~~

*finis de capitulum octo*


	10. 9: The Arena, Part IV

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games

Warnings: Insanity, cursing, graphic depictions of minor character deaths, and OOC Haymitch. This chapter also contains spoilers for The Fault in our Stars. If you haven't read TFIOS yet, and are planning to read it, I suggest you don't read the dropkicking fruits paragraph and the few paragraphs after that one. They only contain details and comparisons, so if you skip them, you won't miss much.

~~~

Chapter Nine: The Arena, Part IV

Don't say goodbye, I'll be your friend

I'll keep on saving you over and over again

-Saving You, Chris Ganem

~~~

I don't know what day it is. I fell asleep at no particular point in time, and when I woke, it was nighttime. But I don't know what day it is. How long was I out? How long was I stumbling around in a daze, wearing the shoes of a madman? How long has it been since Smoke spoke to me, and did Smoke really speak to me at all? Was it all just my imagination, playing tricks on me?

Are Tyler and Rosalina really dead?

I'd like to think that it was all just a dream. That I'm going to wake up in an instant, just to realise that I was never reaped, and that Haymitch Abernathy is nothing but the boy I'll love forever, and that I have never murdered and never will murder. I'd like to think that all this poison is a trick- that these are nothing but phosphorescent plants, really. I'd like to think that I can escape all danger by opening my eyes, where I'll find Myra hugging me and Fauna kissing my cheek and Father scooping me up and swinging me around like he did when I was little.

I'd like to think that Lane never existed, that trains are just vehicles that transport goods instead of people, that Augusta's hair colour actually was lavender. I'd like to think that Alder Blind was a kind man whose experiences didn't negatively impact him, that the Capitol wasn't real but instead represented all of the evil in my mind, that Rosea didn't truly take up a career in the fashion industry. I'd like to think that there's more to District Twelve than coal miners in baggy getup, that there's nothing more to Careers than weapons and ruthlessness, that Sorphigan Pronx gave a training score of twelve to anyone who displayed something unique. I'd like to think that Caesar Flickerman didn't try to make us tributes shine, that the cameras aren't trained on us at all times, that messages don't have to be hidden in plain sight.

I'd like to think that no one was killed in the bloodbath- that there wasn't a bloodbath at all- that the eighteen dead are alive and well. I'd like to think that Gracen Blaze wasn't [isn't] deceptive- that Pine never drank the acid water- that I didn't have to experience such an event first-hand. I'd like to think that the Careers never captured Anahita, that Intella Gently's death didn't spur that of her lover's, that Hestia never cut off my hair. I'd like to think that Willie's handprint still rests on my heart, or that he and Devon never came across my camp in the first place. I'd like to think that Rosalina hated it when someone braided her hair, and never wished to see her brother again. I'd like to think that Tyler couldn't find us, and that the volcano wasn't actually a volcano, and that Hestia never took refuge on the mountain at all. I'd like to think that Tyler was perfectly sane- that he wasn't a demon from Hell- that he didn't plague my dreams within a dream. I'd like to think that Rosalina didn't die in a bed of poisonous flowers, that her father never had lung issues in the first place, that my promises will always be fulfilled.

I'd like to think that I never loved Haymitch enough to take my life for him (although I haven't yet). I'd like to think that Haymitch and I could both make it out of here alive. I'd like to think that Haymitch Abernathy never existed at all to make my life so complicated! And oh, wouldn't that be a miracle.

I'd like to think that I'm not insane. I'd like to think that the Games don't exist. I'd like to think that Panem has been created by myself, and that when I wake I'll be in a new world- a better world- an Earth, like they taught us about in school. But not a destructive Earth; not the Earth that was explained in our textbooks. A perfect Earth. A utopia.

But I cannot think this at all. These past few weeks could have been a dream, but it is more likely that this dreadful life of mine is a reality- a crushing reality that will leave me hanging to sanity by a thread and clutching love tightly in my hands so it doesn't slip away. And why should I waste my time thinking of what could have been when reality continues around me? Why should I lose my concentration on here and now when someone could easily sneak up behind me and slit my throat?

Even if this is a dream, I'd rather not die.

The sun is high above my head now, and I think my skin is burning from its intensity, even through the trees. I feel utterly alone, despite spying the occasional rabbit, hopping through the trees. I'm so sick of it all. I'm so sick of it all, and I've been here- what? A little over a week, maybe? At this rate, how long can I last here?

I cannot stop walking. In circles, maybe, but I still walk. Every time I try to take a rest, the picture of Maysilee Brave pops up in my head- her face has been burned into my memory since the day my mother pointed her out to me in a scrapbook- and I pass by the tempting log, luscious patch of moss, or whatever appealing sitting place I've had the pleasure of spotting. Simply put, I've become paranoid. Maybe I'm acting sane now (or else more sane than after Rosalina and Tyler's deaths), but I am constantly glancing over the back of my shoulder, and when so much as a leaf rustles I'm halfway up a tree before I know what hit me.

Oh well. Better safe than sorry.

Dropkicking fruits has become my favourite pastime. There's something entertaining about touching death and then causing it to sail through the trees. I once read a book about a girl whose lover often dangled a cigarette from his mouth without lighting it. (A cigarette is a form of drug, addictive like morphine, that has been banned since the Capitol took reign. Apparently cigarettes destroy one's lungs when lit, causing cancer, which not one person has been diagnosed with ever since the Capitol treated our ancestors for the disease. Wouldn't want another outbreak, what with the smoking of cigarettes). The book explained how keeping a cigarette in one's mouth without lighting it could symbolize touching death without actually succumbing to it. It was a metaphor. Dropkicking fruits is a metaphor, as well.

I suppose you could compare the boy and I. We think alike.

Then again, the boy died in the end. But I'll probably die, too, so there's not much difference.

~~~

Eventually, when I feel as if my legs can't hold me up a minute longer, I am struck with an idea that I wish I'd gotten earlier. Why not climb a tree? I'm completely paranoid that another tribute is going to come across me, but I'd have the advantage if I were directly above them. And after all, the basis of my paranoia is Maysilee Brave's story… and she couldn't climb a tree whatsoever. She was never taught how.

I'm glad I took a shot at the climbing station back in training. Although I haven't chanced sleeping up in the trees, I can still take refuge there during the daytime. However, I wish I could be a natural tree climber- I wish I could have had more practice before I was reaped for the Games. Sure, the tree outside the apothecary was a nice climb. Sure, there are trees in the forest outside of our district. But Fauna's tree was short, and I never chanced climbing the forest trees, because if I fell and injured myself there would be no one to rescue me.

Oh, the joys of being from District Twelve.

I take the time to choose a tall maple surrounded by a plethora of other tall maples, hoisting myself up thick branches until I'm hidden in the tangle of boughs, sitting comfortably in their midst. I sigh to myself and dangle my legs in thin air, staring at the ground some seven metres below. For once, I let myself relax, and begin to hum "Brace Yourself" under my breath, letting my thoughts wander.

Suddenly, I am compelled to speak aloud. "I have to find him," I mutter. "I have to find him."

Why?

"Because I have to protect him."

He can protect himself.

"Can he?"

Well, he very well doesn't need you to protect him. After all, you'd never do any good. You're just a girl that finds it necessary to talk to herself.

I laugh out loud. I'm sure anyone in Panem watching this will be speculating over my insanity, but frankly, I don't give a damn. Let their minds wander. Let them decide that I'm mad. Because I am. Because we're all mad here. We're all mad everywhere.

There is a small squeak to my left, and suddenly, I whip my head around. My blowgun makes its way to my lips out of habit, and I stare down the wooden shaft as my gaze finds a fluffy, golden squirrel. It cocks its head at me with a sly grin. I narrow my eyes and, in effort to avoid wasting any more darts (for I only have two left), I lunge in its direction, startling it. But before it can regain its wits, I'm passing by the creature and descending the tree quickly, letting go of the last branch when I'm about three metres from the ground.

The squirrel gives out a squeak of protest, and before I know it, the trees around me are littered with the furry rodents. I don't give them more than a seconds' glance, and choose my pathway without hesitation, sprinting away from the pack. I hear their high-pitched squeals from behind me as they attack, flying through the air, and I have to blindly bat away those that manage to cling to my back. Thankfully, not many are capable of managing this feat. It's hard to take aim when your target is moving, of course.

I know now that I shouldn't have even considered a break.

I run, knocking the squirrels away, until their screeches are far behind me. I run a good five minutes more, the wounds from their sharp teeth bleeding out freely. When I'm quite sure they're gone, I sit down and apply antiseptic before wrapping the punctures- which are located on my shoulders, mostly, and my back- in bandages. And then I'm off again, moving through the trees, intending not to stop for minutes or months, days or years.

It approaches dusk quickly. They say time flies when you're having fun, but that so-called theory doesn't seem to apply to me. From what I've observed, time only flies when I am occupied with something. It may be something as tedious as jogging in no particular direction, but time still flits away, seen only when I pause in my tracks.

I am so desperate to rest, but I cannot stop moving. Even when it grows too dark to avoid never-ending tree roots, I continue to blindly navigate my way through the woods. I'll sit down a moment just to stir at the slightest sound and spring to my feet once again. I'm paranoid. I'm overly paranoid. I need someone here to protect me, to grant me hope and a sense of security, but there's no one. I need to protect someone else, too, but as far as I can tell, he's gone forever. I don't know where he is. I haven't known where he's been for- for- days, weeks, months, years, decades, eternity? It's been too long without him.

A thought strikes me. What if he's dead? What if he's been dead all this time and I've been walking in circles trying to find him after I'd slept through his cannon and his face in the sky? I let out a squeak of terror, like something that would emit from a minuscule field mouse, and wrap my arms around my head, squeezing until I have a headache.

My eyes burn. I can't concentrate, because I'm too focused on one thing: don't cry. Don't cry don't cry don't cry...

~~~

It's midnight, or maybe it's not midnight. There's two things I want right now. Haymitch, and even more so, a watch. At least then I'd know something. At least then I'd know what time it is.

"Alder, I want a watch." I stare up at the sky pathetically. I know he won't answer me. I know he'll make sure that his side of the deal is secure. Hell, my surly mentor is probably sleeping off a hangover while drinking up another one in his sleep. He drinks that much. He is that disgusting.

I let my imagination amuse me with the image of Alder drinking himself silly. Making a fool of himself. I laugh and laugh, stumbling on another tree root. But then the image of Alder transforms into something else- transforms into him. His curly hair matted, his piercing gray eyes dull, his hands barely clinging to a flask as he stares blankly into thin air. No. No. No. You can't be an alcoholic. I won't permit it. Biting my lip, I will the image away, but it stays with me, as all images of Haymitch Abernathy do.

Lane Diblre and he standing side by side in the spring rain. Meeting him. Gazing at him. Arguing with him. Graduation. The reaping. The train. The opening ceremonies. Training. The hospital. Kissing him. The roof. Private sessions. Training scores. Waking up in bed with him. Acting. Interviews. Saying goodbye. "Stay alive," he told me.

Brace yourself. Brace yourself. Brace yourself.

I scream it out to Panem. I scream it for all ears to see. "BRACE YOURSELF!" It's a testimony of my insanity. To think that that song has developed into the entire meaning behind my life. To think that I can't even remember why I love it so. But sometimes, remembering can take the magic out of the memories. Remembering can destroy you. Remembering can be impossible.

Remembering can be lovely, but when you compare your past to your present and future, you may shatter into pieces that can never be put back together. Bracing yourself for impact can make it all the better. I just have to figure out how.

~~~

I collapse. It's all too much. I'm fatigued, more in mind than body, which is saying much for the state of my brain. It's on overdrive. I keep thinking of the worst scenarios possible, and then realising I shouldn't torture myself, and then berating myself for this, and then wondering if I'm trying to convince myself that something that is true isn't true. I manage to panic all over again, and then I'll scare myself over the prospect that I'm having another panic attack. At this rate, I'm going to be diagnosed with maniaphobia and agnosiophobia, as well as hypnophobia, mnemophobia, monophobia… and, oh, there are too many more to list.

I'll tell you right now that Fauna, if not asleep, is listing these phobias off in that perceptive brain of hers. "Poor Mays," she'll think, even though I never was and never will be "poor."

Unable to drag myself up, I curl into a fetal position, burying my hands in my short hair and tugging on the ends. If someone found me here, I'd do nothing to stop them from killing me. It would be a welcome release from physical existence. I'd simply bleed out in the darkness without ever seeing my own wounds, pretending pain didn't exist. A nice way to go. Doesn't everybody dream of dying of old age in their sleep? I, personally, think that's much too dull. Pain is the escape to Heaven or Hell, depending on where you belong. Pain determines who you are and what you're worth. Pain is the way to die.

I want to die in pain. And I want to die laughing at whatever causes me that pain, because they say laughter is the best medicine. I'll be brave- like Maysilee Brave, for once. Myra told me she was laughing when she died.

Laughing when the brute from Ten stabbed her.

Somehow, there are no nightmares in dreamland; just empty, comfortable space, swallowing me whole. Covering me in blankets of warmth that I still proceed to shiver under, dousing me in velvet that weighs barely anything more than the air around me. Maysilee Brave tucks me in to bed, singing "Brace Yourself" into my ear, and a pack of toothless squirrels perform a duet in perfect harmony. It's a dream, but then again it's not a dream. Because it is reality.

Beauty is reality, and beauty knows no boundaries. Neither, of course, does reality.

My eyes open to the world again, and I am sane.

~~~

I'm on my last bottle of water. I do hope it rains soon. I'd rather not dehydrate myself again.

Slowly and meticulously taking a sip from the bottle before screwing on the lid, I stand up and run my fingers through my greasy hair. The skinny braids Rosea used to style it with have long ago become undone, some time after Hestia cut away my hair and half of the original braids. As I haven't been able to wash it (or brush it, for that matter), it's probably a horrible mess. Attempting to straighten it out with my fingers doesn't do much use. My hair is, simply put, a lost cause.

Sighing to myself, I look over my supplies, taking inventory. They're dwindling low, even combined with Rosalina's and Tyler's packs. I stuffed myself with the last of the bread just now, because if I saved any for later, it would have been too stale to bite into. There's only a packet and a half of dried beef left after Tyler's splurging, and two packages of dried fruit. My supply of bandages is halfway used up after the multiple squirrel attacks, and the tube of itch cream is mostly full (the rash I received on Day One having vanished with miraculous results). I really don't know why the Gamemakers thought to supply so much of the cream. It's not like we have other use for it.

Unless it treats poisonous mosquito bites. I, in all honesty, wouldn't be surprised.

As for weapons, I have but two darts left to be used in my blowgun and a few knives (one that was originally mine, and another that was at the bottom of Tyler's pack). The knife he used to stab Rosalina was, fortunately, taken into the hovercraft with him. I don't think I could deal with the prospect of carrying something that lead to my friend and ally's ultimate death.

There's plenty of rope, too. Some of it has been used up to create the branch-plank, which I left behind (as bushes provide even more coverage than Rosalina's makeshift shelter), but there's plenty left. If I was skilled in knot-tying, I could probably construct twenty odd nooses with the abundant supply. However, I am not skilled in the art of knot-tying, much to my disappointment. I should have given that a go back in training, rather than learn how to build a snare to catch rabbits with. I'm not going attempt catching a rabbit, for fear they are poisonous. I've officially decided I shouldn't risk it.

Besides, skinning an animal is a feat I've not yet tried and never do intend to carry out. The trainer from Ten might have demonstrated on a rubber rabbit, but that's far from the skin, bones, blood, and muscle of an actual rabbit. Just thinking about it makes me crinkle my nose in disgust.

This arena appears to be far too good at fulfilling my desires. Then again, maybe I want to attempt skinning a rabbit (in the dreams of my forever-lost defiance). But before I can take it upon myself to perform such an act, I hear someone scream in the distance.

I am instantly reminded of the other screams: of the poor souls of the bloodbath, of tortured Anahita from Five, of Intella's district partner when he discovered her corpse. Of Willie and his war cry, of Devon and the long, drawn-out note he sang proudly as he ran into his own ally's butcher knife. Of Smoke not too long ago, and of Rosalina's shrieks in my nightmare as her own brother stabbed her in the stomach. Of my own screams, especially: those I blamed on Myra and the rest I put upon the shoulders of insanity. The rest that will not linger in my soul. Now, they're gone. Somehow, they managed to escape through the cracks of my soul.

These aren't like the other screams. Those were screams of fear and defiance and utter grief. These are screams of rage, and rage only: screams holding a distinguishable meaning, for there are words being shouted. "Fuck you! Fuck you! That was my BROTHER you coal dust-covered son of a bitch-" and the cursing goes on. But I don't care to listen; don't care to interpret the voice, even. I can only mull over the words before my heart drops into the depths of my stomach.

Coal dust-covered son of a bitch = Haymitch Abernathy.

Boom.

Suddenly, I'm running so fast my legs nearly give out from underneath me, sprinting so quickly through the trees that they blur into a green-and-brown swirl of colours. Miraculously, I don't trip over a root or an outcropping of bushes. I'll wonder about that later, though. My mind is solely focused on the continuous bellowing and the low-pitched cry of the cannon. I don't know who it was for. Maybe it was Haymitch. It could have been Haymitch.

Boom.

I'm getting closer, because I hear the noises of a relentless fight to the death: grunts and yells and curses. It doesn't really matter what they're saying; it's just that they're saying something that will lead me to my ultimate relief or dread. I have no time to brace myself. I cannot and will not make time for that through this haze of utter panic.

A clearing is up ahead, I think. The gaps in the trees grow further apart to let sunlight stream in, illuminating chlorophyll-pigmented leaves until they give off a near fluorescent hue. They combine with each other until I feel as if I am sprinting through leafy green draperies, pushing away the fabric with my hands, holding my blowgun out in front of me as my only means of protection.

I stop just as the trees end, and I'm met with a sudden, deafening silence. I watch as one opponent draws his knife up to the other's slim neck. I don't even stop to react. The blowgun touches my lips and I aim for the skin of the predator's fleshy neck, exhaling forcefully. The dart lands with precision, and its victim falls backwards as he reaches around and pulls the dart right back out again. However, the poison has already gone into effect. He's coughing and choking and writhing, the blood spewing out of his mouth in deep red waves until there's no more left to extract. I cover my eyes. I can't watch.

Boom. Quarren's dead, and I didn't even know his surname. I didn't know Willie's or Devon's either, for that matter. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.

When I look up again, the only survivor slowly stands, looking confused as he stares at the corpses of three supposedly invincible young men. I take a look at them myself. Intron with a knife lodged in the centre of his throat. Exon with his hands futilely covering the puncture wound in his stomach. Quarren, laying in a pool of crimson, my dart dangling from the space between his middle and index fingers.

I look up at the survivor and step out of the woods to announce my presence. At the same time, his gaze drifts to meet mine and piercing gray catches hold of dull blue.

Words can't say how much I've wanted- needed- to see him again. "We'd live longer with the two of us," I decide upon, extending my hand out in some sort of cordial gesture.

He doesn't take it, and instead rubs the back of his neck, his lips drawn into a permanent frown. "Guess you just proved that," he says. "Allies?"

I'm tempted to respond with a sarcastic "no," but that's definitely not an appropriate response, so I nod once.

We gather their supplies without a word more. We are granted with interesting finds. A large stash of sweets lie at the bottom of Intron's pack, while a bottle of shampoo and an abundance of full water bottles live in his brother's. The sight of these hit me with a pang of grief, for even if I didn't kill them, they were people too. Intron loved sweets, Exon loved hygiene. Or maybe I'm deluding myself into assuming humane qualities about them. Anyhow, take away their weapons, the twins' packs barely resemble your typical Careers'.

Quarren is another story. His pack holds nothing but a variety of weapons and not one trace of food (I suppose he ate it all). A collection of daggers, kama, spearheads (the shaft of the spear isn't present- or maybe he never had a spear shaft in the first place. I sure didn't), short swords, boomerangs, and even a blowtorch make up the pack's contents. Although I'm fairly sure Quarren was as humane as the rest of us, his pack does nothing to spur my sympathy.

We leave most of his weapons on him. They'll be taken up into the hovercraft, never for my eyes to see again, never for another tribute to use to their advantage. We do take the blowtorch with us, though. It may be useful for something.

Using the remainder of his bandages and most of mine, we patch up the cuts scratches he attained from Intron's and Quarren's knives, as well as Exon's short sword. I'm not exactly sure what to do about his nose. The bruises blossoming over it make it hard to tell whether or not it's broken. Haymitch says that it was Intron's doing, after he killed Exon. I comment that Intron can really pack a punch. "I mean-" I correct myself, "-could really pack a punch."

It's not until we exit the clearing that I reach over and lace my fingers through his, sighing softly as I look away from his gaze and stare into our impending future.

~~~

"You aren't going insane," I tell him eventually.

"Who said I was, sweetheart?" Haymitch asks, smirking.

"Don't act," I chastise him. "Don't act as if you're above homicide. You are less of a murderer than I am, and so I know more about the repercussions. Given, I am moderately weak- but no one is invincible to the emotions following... manslaughter." He freezes in place at this, and I am forced to stop with him, but I continue. "There's no way to brace yourself for the guilt. Just know that you aren't going insane."

Haymitch lowers his narrowed eyes. "They deserved it," he says bitterly.

"And telling yourself that doesn't improve anything, does it?"

"Maybe it does," he replies defensively. "Who did you kill, Mays?"

I close my eyes, ignoring the nickname. "Willie-" I take a deep breath, seeing him writhing on the ground "-Devon-" I picture him running towards me, screaming "-Tyler-" I watch Tyler as he scuttles forward, using his tentacle-arms to plunge a knife into Rosalina's stomach "-and Quarren, you know."

"Did they deserve it?" His eyes are haunted; plagued by shock.

"Tyler did," I say shortly. "And I near lost it. But I never went insane, and neither will you, because we are already insane. Because we're all mad here- we're all mad everywhere." At this point, I'm rambling, unable to keep from speaking my mind. "Haymitch… I've been so alone. All this time, ever since Rosalina's death, I can't put an end to the paranoia. I'd been thinking- what if you were dead? What if I didn't hear the cannon? Which is silly, I know… but lately, I've been sleeping for days on end, and I feel as if I'm an entirely new person. I saw my reflection in an acid pool the other day and I thought I was somebody else!"

I sink to my knees, and he places a hand on my shoulder. A hand that will always radiate heat. "Haymitch," I whisper, "what day is it?"

"Eight."

"But I thought-" a stunned giggle escapes my lips, "-I thought it had been so much longer than that. You're lying, aren't you? You're trying to make me feel better, Haymitch. It's been weeks, hasn't it? That's why I'm so-"

"Maysilee Donner." His voice is commanding as he shakes my shoulders once. "I am not lying. It is day eight. Forty-one of us are dead, and you haven't missed a single cannon, because you know there are seven of us left. Me and you. Platina. Venom-"

"DON'T!" I shout. "Don't tell me! That's what Tyler used to do!" Taking a gasping breath, I begin to whisper once again. "I thought I was okay. I thought I was sane again. I thought finding you would help me. I'm not, I'm not, it hasn't."

I can't cry. I cannot cry anymore. It's as if my tears have shriveled up to nothing, or are suffering from an extreme case of paralysis. But my words- my words are broken. I'm sure Haymitch knows this, and I'm sure Haymitch doesn't have the slightest idea what he's supposed to do to help me. But I cannot look at him and I cannot tell him what he is supposed to do- which is nothing, of course- so I curl up in fetal position and refuse to move.

The day passes away, the sun shining far above me, but I do nothing, and neither does my ally.

~~~

"I'm sorry," I mutter as a new dawn arises, uncurling and staring at a half-asleep Haymitch.

"It's fine," he says, a twinge of bitterness marring his tone. "We'll have to make up for lost time, though. I have to find a way through the hedge."

"Hedge?"

Haymitch runs a hand through his unruly curls and stares at the sun, which is slowly inching upwards in the sky. "Yes- hedge." He refrains from telling me more, and instead says, "In response to the other day… you aren't going insane, either, sweetheart."

"I know. I am insane."

"No." He shakes his head. "No, you aren't. Fear, panic, grief, and guilt will cause anyone's emotions to go completely haywire. Everything you've seen has overstimulated your brain. I think you have to come to terms with your homicide, fully convince yourself that it was inevitable, and know that the dead tributes are in a better place (unless you count those who deserved it, like Tyler as you so firmly believe should have been punished). I wouldn't know insanity, even with my occasional panic attacks, so I am convinced that you wouldn't know it either."

"How are you not so affected?"

"I have killed before," he says bluntly. "Animals. For food. I've learnt how to vanquish guilt. …And besides, maybe you're just weak."

"I'm going to pretend that you never mentioned my psychological strength, no matter how fragile it has proved to be." I turn away and unzip my pack, digging through its contents and ignoring his hurtful comment. I don't even care if he was being sarcastic. That was uncalled for. "After all, you wouldn't understand. You never witnessed Tyler killing his own sister."

For once, I've rendered him speechless.

~~~

I've carefully evaluated the symptoms and have come to the conclusion that Haymitch Abernathy is seven point four times more paranoid than I.

Not only does he insist that we keep walking- which I don't really mind, but don't consider necessary anymore, now that I have an ally to watch my back- but he has us walking with our backs tilted a half a metre away from the side of the volcano. No more, no less. I'd prefer to have my back fully facing the volcano, but Haymitch strictly enforces this rule by turning around every fifteen seconds to assess our exact location in comparison to the looming landform. "Why?" I ask him, but his answers are less than adequate.

"The hedge," he'll mutter, "I have to find it." Or else he won't answer my questions at all. I believe him to be distancing himself from me, which is all very formidable, but not the least bit comforting. Is it too much to ask for a friendly Haymitch days before I die?

Not only does he insist that we climb a tree when in need for a break- which isn't such a big deal, considering the circumstances- but he has to scout out the area around the set tree, the diameter of the circle no less than twenty metres of length, test out every branch to make sure they won't break under stress, navigate all escape routes and map them out in that obsessive head of his, and assure me that it's worth all of the trouble (which takes a considerable length of time on its own, I must say). "Why?" I ask him, but he just shakes his head before we finally take a rest in the tree's branches.

We're off again fifteen minutes later, and I can't help but think all of this enforcement is unnecessary.

Not only does he insist that I use the bathroom a distance away from the path we've been taking- which only slightly makes sense, as what sort of Career is trained in tracking people via urine? (I'm sure there are a few)- but he has to accompany me there, covering our tracks the entire way, stand a few metres from me at all times, and turn his head as I pee into the bushes. Seriously. It's like Haymitch thinks I'm vulnerable when I'm going to the bathroom- as if I can't defend myself with my blowgun. Well, it's true that I have but one dart left, but it's not like I'm going to miss my target.

"Why?" I'll ask him. "Aren't you aware that it makes me uncomfortable?" And yeah, it's sweet, and I'm pretty sure I love him, but Haymitch isn't acting like Haymitch these days.

However, my continuous inquiries do nothing to get on his nerves- and I've asked the question "why" so many times I'm fed up with it, depleting my original intentions. Haymitch's face remains impassive, his lips pursed to form a thin line, his silvery eyes downcast. His nose, which I now assume to be broken, has adapted until it portrays all the colours of the rainbow under the white bandage (well- look on the bright side, it's stopped bleeding). No matter what I say, he will only stare at me stonily. And so, with one final "why" (with no positive results), I stop walking.

He's walked fifteen metres or so before he realises that I've remained stationary. I stare at him expectantly as he turns and walks back over to me. "Why?" I ask again, although the term is overused. "Why do you insist we remain so precautioned, why do you insist we go everywhere together, why do you insist we keep walking, and why do you insist we go in this certain direction?"

"Come on," he grasps at my arm, his blank face the epitome of a sociopath's.

"I'm not moving until you tell me," I frown, planting my feet firmly on the ground. "We're allies- friends-" (lovers, but I don't dare say it) "-and I think I deserve to know the intentions behind your ridiculous actions."

"Because it has to end somewhere, right?" Haymitch sighs, staring me down. "The arena can't go on forever."

And yet you refuse to rest for one instant? "What do you expect to find?"

"I don't know. But maybe there's something we can use," he says. "Nobody's ever made it to the outside of an arena before. And I think I may have found the way in. Before I came across Intron, Exon, and Quarren, I had found a dense, prickly hedge that measured about three metres high. There was absolutely no way to get through it, and so I followed the hedge, looking for an opening. The Gamemakers, of course, adjusted it to lead me towards the centre of this goddamn woods once again."

"Oh," I reply, thinking it over. "Makes sense, I suppose, although can you really be sure there's something behind that hedge? Can you really be sure there's an opening at all?"

"No. But it's a risk I'd like to take, Maysilee, and as you preferred to form an alliance with me instead of us each going our separate ways, you'll have to deal with it." He takes a step forward, glancing back at me to make sure I'll follow.

I won't. Shaking my head, I say, "Haymitch Abernathy, you stop this instant. So we're going off in search of a hedge- and I suppose it's worth taking the risk, because after all, there's nothing else to do but sit around- but as we have mutual ownership of this alliance, I propose I put some input into it as well." I pause to take a deep breath.

"There are three conditions you must follow. Firstly, I want privacy. Not unconditional privacy- I mean, I don't care if we share my camouflage blanket or whatever (even though you probably have a blanket or sleeping bag of your own)- but I do request you refrain from escorting me to the 'bathroom'. It's embarrassing. Secondly, I want you to stop correcting every little change in direction we make. Do you think it really matters? Do you think the Gamemakers will leave the hedge in the same exact spot that led you to the clearing in which you fought the Careers?" He opens his mouth to speak, but I clap a hand over his lips. "No. Let me continue. This is important unless we want everything to fall apart.

"Finally, I want to take breaks. I want to take a break for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I want to take thirty-minute breaks instead of fifteen. And I want six hours to sleep. It's past dusk now, Haymitch Abernathy-" (and it is, the sun has sunk so quickly I can barely make out his features now), "-and as we've been walking all day, why can't we find an adequate spot to make camp (I'm sure this will do) and crash? I nominate twelve hours. You take watch first, I'll take watch second."

He thinks it over, running a hand through his curly hair. I can tell he doesn't like my propositions, but he can distinguish the firmness behind my clipped words, and he knows he has no other choice. "Very well."

A smile plays at my lips as I shrug my pack off my shoulders, unzipping it and feeling around for the packet of dried fruit. Opening it, I scoop up a handful and eat them slowly, savouring every last bite. After this, I take a few sips from my last water bottle (the contents are beginning to dwindle pretty low- they'll be gone by afternoon tomorrow) and begrudgingly screw the top on again. My last act is to pull out my blanket from its depths. Haymitch, unsurprisingly, has a camouflage blanket as well.

"I'm considering it's a good thing that we don't have to sleep in the trees or bushes now," I say, my tone joking.

"You have something against sleeping in them?"

"No, no. It's just… I'm quite a deep sleeper. If I were to sleep on a tree bough, there would be an eighty percent chance that I'd fall out. On the other hand, I've been sleeping in bushes since day one. The effort to find the ideal bush would be, at the moment, fruitless." Shrugging, I sit on the ground and drape the blanket over my body, placing my pack under my head to use as a pillow. Haymitch's pack remains hanging from his shoulders as he sits on the ground, adjusting his own camouflage blanket until all I see is his head, floating in the air.

My eyelids are heavy as I laugh. "Any attackers would be completely disoriented, should they choose this time to assault us."

He offers me the ghost of a smile as the sky lights up, the Capitol's seal shining through a gap in the trees and the Capitol's anthem blaring from invisible speakers. There are no dead. The sky darkens once more, and I finally lift the blanket so it falls over my head, obscuring my vision but not restricting my oxygen intake, for the fabric is extremely breathable. "Good night, Haymitch."

My ally lets out a grunt of acknowledgment.

I'm much too fatigued from walking to feel hurt by this, and so my eyes slowly drift shut as I listen to his rhythmic breathing, imagining the breathing originating from right beside me. And then suddenly, it is. My eyes fly open as he breathes into my ear, the fabric of my camouflage blanket the only shield. "I'm sorry," he whispers, his words melancholy. "It's necessary that I distance myself from you, love."

And it is. It is completely, utterly necessary that we create distance between the two of us. It's not worth getting attached if we can help it. Moreover, I cannot help it, because I am much too attached for my own good. I'll let Haymitch control the extent of our relationship for now- until our ultimate separation.

I sigh ruefully as upper lash touches lower. When did life become so complicated?

~~~

Day Ten begins with a certain Haymitch Abernathy tapping me continuously on the shoulder. I groan, rolling over onto my side and pressing one palm over my eyes while using the other to brush his hand away, but it's no use. I'm already awake. Sitting up, I rub at my bleary eyes and stare into the night.

"Your turn to take watch," Haymitch says haughtily, plopping himself down on ground and wrapping his blanket around his shoulders. In turn, I shrug mine off, grumbling to myself about unfair watch times (despite having planned the shifts out myself just six hours prior). I'm hit with a sudden burst of cold air- it's freezing- but I don't dare wrap my blanket around me, for fear of drifting off again and leaving the both of us completely vulnerable. Leaning against the tree, I cease my grumbling, and the world descends into sudden silence.

Haymitch falls asleep quickly enough, and although it's hard to make out his unconscious form through the camouflage blanket, I can hear his shallow breathing from my position leaning against a tree trunk. I let my mind wander, imagining his face as he sleeps. I can almost touch the breath that flies from his lips (which are slightly parted in relaxation), and those long eyelashes are splayed against his under eyes, dark with lack of sleep. I smile softly as I envision his curly hair falling into his face- myself brushing the locks away- he, in succession, instinctively reaching up to catch my hands with his. I feel his ever-present warmth and whisper, "I am alive."

Jerking myself out of my daydream, I shake my head, attempting to clear it. Staring at the space in front of me, I puzzle over what allowed me to visualise my desires so vividly. After all, I can barely make him out from underneath the blanket. It's almost as if he's gone. Disappeared. As if we've parted ways, or... he's dead.

I clutch my blowgun tighter, my fingernails digging into the beige wood. Haymitch Abernathy won't die under my watch. That is a given.

Furthermore, as the hours congregate into one meaningless blur, passing by (I can't fathom whether or not they go swiftly or slowly), the grip on my blowgun loosens. I plummet into more daydreams, configuring different scenarios in my mind's eye. It's a pastime I have taken up since I was very young. I used to stare out the window of our candy shop, licking away at one of my fushia lollipops, and dream of an action-filled life in which I was the heroine protagonist who could appear anywhere and save the day with her superhuman powers. Wishful thinking, that. But then again, productive thinking; for had I not sat at my stool every single day, staring at the same sign advertising "Cartwright's Shoes" while imagining how to take down a tri-headed, reptilian mutt... alas! The right side of my brain would not have received the exercise that it needed to form intelligent thought, and I would have grown to become your typical droll, uncreative merchant girl.

Not that those five words aren't adequate enough to describe the essence of my being. But had intelligent thought been absent from my personality, I would never have made it this far in the Games. Therefore, you can conclude that daydreaming is the reason for my prolonged survival.

Times have changed since then. I don't daydream of performing heroic deeds. I don't wish to fly through the air, shouting commands to thousand-person troops. Instead, I tend to visualise life without the Hunger Games- or rather, life unreaped (so to speak). It's another one of the mind games that have kept me occupied this past week and a half, and it's the mind game I play now.

I begin the "daydreaming game" with rolling out of bed, my duvet trailing behind me as I stumble blearily into the bathroom. Sticking my hands under the faucet (for we do have enough money to spend on running water for our sinks, but not enough to afford running water for our baths), I splash water over my face, rubbing my eyes wearily. Looking up into the cracked mirror that Myra punched when we were thirteen ("my reflection had acne!" was her excuse), I quickly inspect my appearance, bunching my long, unruly straw hair into a high ponytail. I brush my teeth. I apply the faintest hint of concealer to the skin under my eyes, which is dark because I chose to stay up late last night- not because I've been a participant in the Hunger Games these past one and a half weeks, oh no.

Walking out of my bathroom, I open the door of Myra's and my wardrobe, pleased that I get first pick of clothes today (since Myra is sleeping soundly in her own bed). Entering, I choose a crimson gown created with a mix of polyester, silk, and cashmere, as well as a sienna scarf and brown, steel-toed boots. I don't feel pretty today. I feel… rebellious.

Myra wakes up just after I don the outfit. "Morning," she yawns, her own blonde hair a tangled mess. I once heard a Seam girl say we merchants all rolled out of bed looking our best. I've begun to think this applies to less than one percent of Panem's population. That less than one percent including none other than Haymitch Abernathy.

"Morning. What're you up to today?"

"Suppose I'll go sort herbs with Fauna. Nothing better to do... care to join us?" She raises her pale arms above her head, letting out a yawn the size of District Four (for it is the largest district- even more so than the Capitol).

"Sorry. Can't." The words come tumbling out of my mouth. "I've got a date with Haymitch Abernathy."

Myra gives a little squeal mid-yawn, and jumps from her bed, throwing her arms around me. "I knew you'd do it. I knew you were in love with him! I'm so proud." She unwraps herself from the hug as quickly as she flew at my unsuspecting form, but holds me at arm's length more still. "...If only Daddy got over his impending grudge. Just because Mum caught the plague from that little Seam boy doesn't mean they're all diseased nowadays." Her tone of voice switches from light-hearted joy to bitter melancholy.

Suddenly, I'm angry. Yes, Father does have an impending grudge that renders him unable to approve whom I love and whom loves me- Haymitch, of course- but does it really matter? If worst comes to worst our father will kick me out of the house, but I'll be able to make it anyway. Fauna's parents would be sure to take me in, or the Cartwrights, or the Undersees… Not that my relationship with Haymitch is pushing things to such an extent. "Do you think I care what our father thinks?" I ask Myra resentfully, turning away from her and fleeing out the door of our bedroom.

The length of the hallway is shortened by the fact that I'm near sprinting. I take the stairs two at a time and head towards the side door of the building, because this time, Myra isn't hindering me from following the rules. Breaking free of the building, I run towards the front of our sweetshop, leaping over patches of dying dandelions and trampling expanses of prickly grass. The cobblestone street is a welcome sight, as well as the scene that meets me there. A scene doused in sunlight rather than rain. A scene contrasting with the one that met my eyes the first time I saw them.

The anger forgotten, I stare as Lane reaches out and smacks Haymitch Abernathy across the cheek. Haymitch waits a split second before lashing out himself, his palm hitting its chosen target. Her head snaps to the side so that she's facing me, her eyes narrowed as she catches sight of my satisfied grin. And then Lane takes one more glance at Haymitch, hand flying to her cheek, and she says, "You owe me. Have fun with your slut."

"I owe you nothing. Have fun being a slut."

She turns around and storms off, feet hitting the cobblestones with unnecessary force. I hold back a laugh and stare at her pin-straight hair, fingering mine (which I didn't even bother to brush). Not that Haymitch cares. Maybe he even likes that I don't put excessive effort into my appearance. I know, for one, that Lane does, and he hates her. I'm relieved that when Lane's parents attempted to sue Haymitch's mother, the court ruled out such blasphemous results of what is sure to become a family feud.

Approaching him, I say, "Do you mind if the slut says hello?" It's all for laughs- my words aren't the least bit begrudging. Why should I be envious of Lane Diblre, now that she's taken care of?

"Shut up," he hisses, lacing his fingers through mine and planting a firm kiss on my unsuspecting lips. We manage to make it last a while, the moment all our own, and the world has just enough time to fade away before it appears once again. "You'll always be so much better than she is; prettier than she is; awing than she is. You, Maysilee Donner, are so much more worth it than Lane Diblre will ever be."

And so we walk down the cobblestone street, with no particular destination in mind, enjoying the lovely afternoon sunlight as it hits our faces, alighting our skin in a healthy grow. For the moment, I'm completely content; without fear, without worry, without care. Somehow, in the hotel of life, I've taken a risk and pushed an anonymous button on the elevator's wall panel. The elevator, satisfied, has taken me up to the same floor as freedom. This is the reason for the grin that takes up the lower half of my face. This is the reason why I'm near crying at how beautiful the world is.

He has to ruin it. He just has to ruin it. "You're bleeding," he says, eyebrows knitted in concern.

"I'm what?"

"You're bleeding."

I look down, trying to inspect every inch of my body to locate the source of blood. But there isn't any blood, and the stinging pain that comes with a cut or scrape is entirely absent. "I'm not bleeding," I say, raking my fingers lightly over the perfectly intact skin of my forearm. But when I step back, I spot a small pool of blood where I had been standing just moments before, coming from seemingly nowhere.

A strong sense of foreboding surrounds my mentality, and I look down to my feet, where droplets of blood drip from the hemline of my crimson dress. Out of reflex, I jump back, but this obviously does nothing to stem the now steady flow of blood. The colour of the dress itself is fading as it empties itself out. "Well- yes, I suppose I am bleeding," I continue, "but my dress is the source of the problem, is it not?"

Haymitch stares at me, his mouth agape. "Sweetheart, that's not the dress," he says calmly. "That's you. That's your blood."

And then it strikes me. The pain. A thousand invisible, white-hot knives stab at every inch of my body, the pain filling my ears in wave after wave of utter torture. It's soon drowned out by my screams as the blood is suddenly pouring from the gown's hemline, the colour fading until the dress is pure white- white like my reaping dress, white like President Snow's beloved roses, white like the corpse of an unfortunate soul who happened to bleed to death.

I fall to the cobblestone road, the pain abruptly vanishing, replaced by… nothing. Nothing at all. I can't move and I can't breathe. My hand inches toward my neck, checking for a pulse, but there's none there. I manage to choke out a word- "Help"- but it does no good, for Haymitch simply watches. Watches as I fade.

"I don't mind if the slut says goodbye," he announces, turning away.

And the thoughts swirl in my mind, singing repetitive melodies that bring me no delight. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

~~~

I startle awake, shaking, and cursing myself for falling asleep. Jumping up from my seat against the tree, I scour the area immediately around Haymitch and I, checking to make sure nobody is hiding in the trees or bushes, waiting to attack. There isn't a single soul to be found. Sighing, I turn back around and seat myself against a different tree, this one closer to the spot where I last saw Haymitch pull his camouflage blanket over his body. I don't try to wake him- and why should I? What he doesn't know won't hurt him. And if he doesn't know that I fell asleep on watch, so be it.

I settle down, banishing all thoughts of the nightmare from my mind. There's no use obsessing over a pointless and utterly impossible what-if. Instead, I finger the mockingjay pin on my lapel and stare at the sky as it takes its time to awaken, the sun peeking out over the horizon. Not that I can distinguish exactly where the source of light comes from- the trees filter the sunlight, blocking out the strongest rays- but I like to watch how the forest lightens, the trees turning from dark jade to vibrant emerald, shadows once casted overtaken by radiance.

It is interesting how my brain has adapted to the smells and sights of this arena. I am still aware that I am living and breathing unnatural air, I can still recognise that everything is plagued by poison, but I've grown used to it. The green isn't stunning anymore, and the artificial sweetness of the atmosphere has been toned down as my senses have been fully exposed to them. Even the fruits that hang from the trees, the ones that I love to dropkick, have lost their glistening aura. I'm no longer tempted to eat them anymore. Is it just me, or have the Gamemakers given up any hope of fooling us?

Although I'm surprised they're not making any attempt to push us together. Normally, after two days of no death whatsoever, the Gamemakers attempt to mix things up a little. But maybe Haymitch and I provide a good show; maybe they're too distracted with moving the hedges; maybe Platina (and Venom, if they are still allies) is/are engaging in entertaining shenanigans; maybe Smoke has gone raving mad; maybe Tess has found the most ingenious hiding place; maybe Gracen Blaze is plotting an elaborate scheme to deceive us all. Or maybe the Gamemakers have planned something something for today (Day Ten) that will throw all other plans out of the water. I shall remain clueless.

Day threatens to break through dawn, and mockingjays flood the trees, singing song after beautiful song. I clutch my pin to my chest, as if it's going to fly away with the rest of them. As if gold could turn to feathers. As if I don't want to break the rules of reality.

I never liked change, anyway.

My fingers wander up to my hair on their own accord, tugging on the matted strands. I used to be able to wind my hands in my hair until I thought I could never untangle them, but when I try this now, my hands come free almost instantly. "Is it wrong to curse you, Hestia?" I whisper. "Is it wrong to curse the dead for leaving behind their impact on society? On their friends? Family? Allies?" I wrap my arms around my knees, hugging them to my chest. "Is it wrong to curse you for cutting my hair? Because if not, damn you. Damn you."

And why is it that cutting my hair had such a big impact on me? It's because I don't like change. I spent twelve years of my life with hair down to the middle of my back- occasionally a bit shorter, yes, when the hassle of brushing it daily got to me- but never so short as it is now, coming down to the top of my neck in the back and brushing my shoulders in the front. My hair was the one thing that never changed much. It was the one thing that tied me to Maysilee Donner, the merchant girl that wasn't exceptional but not particularly dull, either. It tied me to normalcy.

Now it's gone.

The sun pushes away from the horizon, ascending the ladder of the sky and coming to rest a little ways above my eye level. The woods, fully lit, portray an amiable personality- nothing ominous, as they seem to be when coated in darkness. Or is it just my dislike for darkness that creates the ominous aura, ever since I killed a thirteen-year-old boy, ever since his sister came to rest in a patch of flowers? Is it my dislike for thinking of the Dark family? Speaking of the Darks- I mentally remind myself to tell Haymitch of my promise to Rosalina, in which if one of us turns out Victor, we'll help pay for her father's lung treatment.

Wouldn't want to forget that. Promises are made to keep.

I sigh, stretching out my legs and leaning into them. My muscles protest, but I hold the pose for a few moments before readjusting myself into a kneeling position. It's high time that I wake up Haymitch, so we can go looking for that hedge of his. He'd kill me for letting him oversleep (and I can't be so sure that's not hyperbole).

I extend my hand out, reaching over to tap on the last place where I saw his shoulder. My fingers touch nothing but open air, which is no matter. I tell myself that I'll just crawl forward on my knees and wave my hands around until I accidentally bump into him. And so I proceed to do this.

My search covers a ten-by-ten foot square around the tree I was leaning up against, but it's no use. I can't find him anywhere, and suddenly I'm panicking, because oh damn it someone found him while I was asleep and took him away or maybe he left on his own accord because I'm not a good ally anymore and I've lost him and- He's. Bloody. Gone.

And so I do the only rational thing one can do in this situation.

I scream.

~~~

*finis de capitulum novem*


	11. The Arena, Part V

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

Warnings: Cursing, graphic content, minor character death, suicide, majour character death.

Notes: The directions of the landforms in this arena are simple, if you map it out. The volcano is to the northwest, the Cornucopia towards the south, the meadow stretching toward the north. The woods are to the east, and the hedge is located on the northeast edge of the arena. The river stretches into the far south.  
Maysilee requests a diamond shovel because it's impossible to liquefy diamonds (based on their crystal structure and atomic composition).  
Alba Jennings is the morphling that saved Peeta during the Seventy-Fifth Games. "Alba" means "sunrise" in Italian.

~~~

Chapter Ten: The Arena, Part V

Staring at the bottom of your glass

Hoping one day you'll make a dream last

But dreams come slow and they go so fast

You see her when you close your eyes

Maybe one day you'll understand why

Everything you touch surely dies

But you only need the light when it's burning low

Only miss the sun when it starts to snow

Only know you love her when you let her go

-Let Her Go, Passenger

~~~

"What- the- hell- sweetheart?"

He sprints into the clearing moments later, gasping for breath, his eyes wild and his hand clutching at his camouflage blanket. Our mutually panicked eyes seek refuge in one another, and when they meet, his narrow in response. Suddenly, he's storming towards me and pulling me up into a standing position. "What the hell?" Haymitch repeats. "Why were you fucking screaming in the fucking Hunger Games if you weren't fucking dying?"

He drags me into the trees at such a pace that it's impossible for me not to trip over my feet. Haymitch goes on. "I get up to go to the bathroom and there you are, staring into space. I figure, 'oh, for Snow's sake, I gotta take a piss, she won't notice anyway' and I'm gone for two minutes tops when you scream my name at the top of your lungs! I thought you were dying," he hisses. "I thought you were dying and that Platina had gotten to you and- and-" his voice cracks.

"Well, I'm sorry," I snap. "Maybe if you had told me where you were going, I wouldn't have conducted a search of the clearing and found you nowhere in sight! This is all your fault."

"Oh it is, is it?"

"Damn right it is!"

He's quit dragging me and now stands there, glaring at me, feet shoulder width apart and arms crossed across his chest. I glare back, hands on my hips. There is a pause in which I wait for Haymitch to say something, and when he finally does, it's an excuse. Always has to get the last word in, doesn't he? "Well, if it weren't for-"

"Oh, shut up, will you?" I huff. "This is absolutely pointless. I thought you were dead, you thought I was dead, we're not dead, this conversation is over." I tug on his wrist, choose a direction at random, and tow Haymitch along behind me, taking deep breaths. "The thing is, Haymitch, we have to end all... complications between the two of us." I pause for emphasis. "One of us is going to die eventually. It's inevitable, and we both have to stop fooling our subconscious into thinking that if one of us becomes Victor, we'll be able to solve our complications. So to speak."

"So... what? Refrain from sprinting in your direction if I think you're dying?" He asks.

"If I agree to refrain from screaming," I say dejectedly. "And, of course, I do."

Haymitch considers it, and then wrenches his wrist from my grip. "It was already hard enough. Why does this situation worsen every day we spend in these Games? Why are we even in here? Why us?"

"Fate. Punishment. Chance. But who said life was easy? Who ever said these Games were supposed to be easy?" I shake my head and stare at the mockingjay pin on my lapel. I think of Rosalina and Tyler; Intella and the boy with the metal-covered teeth; Willie and Devon. "They aren't easy for anyone else. We shouldn't get a break, Haymitch. We aren't special- we never were. But maybe some day, one of us will be special. Maybe you'll be special. Maybe I'll be special. Or maybe we'll never be special. I'm not one to determine the future."

His gray eyes flick up to mine. "Exceptionality is specific. One will be remembered, the other forgotten."

"Well, we can't let that happen, can we?"

~~~

It rains again, around midday. I construct a system for catching water, positioning leaves to create a natural funnel into our large collection of bottles. We mentally time how long it takes per one bottle to fill to the brim, and use this technique to switch out bottles every fifteen minutes or so. Meanwhile, I stand in the midst of the downpour and revel in my drenched state, as Haymitch sits against the trunk of an aspen.

"I've always loved rain," I tell him. "Even when I was little, I'd beg to go outside during thunderstorms. Father wouldn't let me. He said that my mother didn't, either, when she was alive. Back then, I thought he was depriving me from having the time of my life- but now, I realise he was imitating my mother. Trying to live up to the expectations of both father and mother. Sad, isn't it?"

He nods, but disagrees with my claims. "I can't stand rain," he admits. "I can't stand rain because afterwards, I feel as if I've bathed, and I've never been able to stand the thought of bathing. It's unnatural for those from the Seam to bathe often, and so it's always been foreign to me. The Capitol, of course, is unforgiving, no matter the extent I protested when they scrubbed the coal dust from under my nails. Bastards," he grimaces. "And there are also memories residing in my head of buying my father cookies, rain or shine. He loved cookies, even more so than alcohol. He'd send me to the bakery when sheets of rain were falling, and I'd comply, because he hated a back-talker. But I shouldn't be complaining; that was how I met you, sweetheart."

"What? When?"

"When we were... but of course, you don't remember," he grumbles under his breath, while getting up to check on the bottles, switching out one and replacing it with an empty water skin. Haymitch lifts the full bottle to his mouth and takes a generous sip, before pausing a moment and then decisively chugging the entire thing.

"Haymitch!" I exclaim reproachfully.

"What? It's not like the rain'll let up anytime soon." (Which, of course, is the Gamemaker's cue to end the downpour and leave the woods in a calm, drenched state.) I purse my lips and glare at the heavens before collecting the full bottles and screwing the tops on. Then, I toss Haymitch half of the bottles and keep the other half for myself, plus another extra bottle, because I think I deserve it after he's unrightfully drained one of his. He doesn't look too pleased with this, but doesn't put up protest, either.

"Why did you have to say that?" I mutter under my breath.

"I told you I disliked rain, sweetheart. Has it ever occurred to you that my actions were intentional?" And Panem forbid that he isn't using sarcasm, or I'll dump my water bottles over the head of the insufferable git. (I tell him just that. He laughs and briefly clasps my hand, shaking his head before letting it go.)

~~~

We're walking at a moderately fast pace in a direction vaguely northeast when Haymitch crows with delight, like a schoolboy at the end of term. Funny, three weeks ago I saw no one squealing as they left the school building, not even those graduating Year One. The reaping was, as always, a dampener on excitement. I remember the day clearly, myself. Walking home from school with Fauna and Myra. Selecting my sister the cream dress with the crimson border. Sneaking off to the outskirts of the Meadow, basking in peace, just to be startled by a certain Haymitch Abernathy.

Although I'd like to think fate is a ridiculous concept, my life is seemingly controlled by it. Was that day controlled by fate, as well? It's hard to convince myself that it wasn't. It's hard to believe that in three weeks, I've come so far- my relationship with Haymitch developing from "Well, someone's being a bit naughty tonight," to "Why are we even here? Why us?"- and that, at the end of these Games, our relationship will be all for naught. I thought I braced myself for this, but the emotions overtake me anyway in a merciless wave of both fulfillment and regret, helplessness, and utter melancholy.

Enjoy it while it lasts, I suppose.

Meanwhile, Haymitch sprints over to an unmistakable, vividly purple hedge. He gestures to it with an expression of satisfaction. "This is what you've been looking for?" I call, jogging over to the hedge and inspecting it. Reaching out a finger, I brush it against the leaves of the hedge, just to recoil as a thorn pricks it hard enough to draw blood. "Ow," I say pathetically. "They want us to keep away from it, I suppose."

"No shit, sweetheart," he agrees, watching amusedly as I take off my pack and slam it up against the hedge. It leaves no indentation on the hedge, which stands firm, but when my backpack bounces off from impact, it's dotted with holes from where the canvas hit the thorns. Annoyed, I pick off the stray thorns that have buried themselves in the pack and let them drop to the ground, swinging the straps of the pack onto my shoulders once more.

"Not necessarily tough, but pretty damn prickly," I observe. "Sorry, Haymitch, but I think our search was fruitless. It will be impossible to find away through this obscenity of a plant unless we can find an opening somewhere. And despite the fact that you've never found an opening before, I think we'd better look." And so, exchanging rueful gazes, we take off alongside the hedge, following it in search of a gap we'll be able to fit through. I'm suddenly hit with déjà vu as I imagine the day we were let out of school and my venture through a gap in the electric fence, in search of my Meadow sanctuary. Unfortunately, it is no help to the situation- just a memory easily used in an analogy.

If there are gaps in the hedge, we find none, and are forced to quit our search at dusk. We set up "camp" only a few feet from the hedge and tonight, I eat and drink as much as I can hold. There's no definite reason for why I stuff myself with three quarters of a pack of beef and down two water bottles- I just do. Maybe it's because there are only seven of us left, and since it's been a few days since anyone died, I know the Gamemakers will start picking us off and driving us into each other soon enough. Maybe it's because I have this sense of foreboding hanging over my shoulders, telling me something is going to happen soon. Call it the sixth sense, or whatever. But the reasons are unimportant. The important factor is that Haymitch and I eat like kings tonight- or rather, we eat more than we've eaten in quite a while. (Kings don't eat beef strips and dried fruit. They indulge on roast pig and pomegranate sorbet. Not that it matters- but I tend to take my figures of speech quite literally.)

Haymitch even pulls out Intron's stash of sweets, and we split them between ourselves- he chooses the ones he prefers, and leaves me with the rest. My first bite of delicious dark chocolate leaves me gagging. I'm not used to such a sweet taste, even from the bitter candy. But eventually, we become accustomed to the tastes of peppermint and orange and caramel and chocolate, and my nose begins to burn with a wave of fresh tears at the thought of Father's sweet shop back home. I gulp the lump in my throat away and lift a truffle high into the air. "To District Twelve," I say, substituting the truffle for a glass of wine, in an effort to make a toast.

Haymitch lifts his. "To my mother."

We set about alternating toasts, and I begin to giggle, riding a sugar high. "To Myra," I say. "To Father. To Fauna. To family. To friends. To victory. To laughter. To love."

By the time the candies are gone and I'm lying on my back, looking up at the unusually spaced stars through the gaps in the trees, I feel happy. I feel happy in the most haunting place imaginable; having survived ten days, ending up with Haymitch by my side. Maybe, I realise, maybe the arena isn't impacting me so much after all. Maybe it's all in my head. Maybe I can be happy here.

And that concludes the last moment of happiness in my life.

~~~

I'm on watch when, not for the first time, the screaming begins. Haymitch, unfortunately, gets the privilege of waking up to it. They're insane screams, not tortured screams, and they belong to Smoke, who has finally broken. I crawl on my hands and knees towards my ally, who sits in an upright position, eyes alert, and take his hand as the screams continue. "He's truly mad," I whisper. "I stumbled across him on accident, or strictly speaking, he stumbled across me. 'I only kill those who are currently killing,' he said. Which means-"

"He's going to commit suicide," Haymitch finishes for me, wincing noticeably.

The screams continue for an hour, at least, until the songbirds chirp and the sun touches the horizon. Mockingjays sing over the shouts, which are accompanied by the occasional string of nonsensical words. When I've reached the point in which I can't stand any more of the noise, a repeated phrase is exclaimed so loudly I marvel over Smoke's lung strength while covering my ears- "I'm not him! I'm not him! I'm not him!" - the screams cease abruptly. I squeeze Haymitch's hand anxiously, hearing the echo of District Three's voice in the deafening silence. 

Boom.

One down, five to go, and one to be crowned Victor. Can I survive this? Or, more importantly, can I survive this with my mind still intact? Can I survive this without regret? Can I survive this… without Haymitch?

~~~

The hedge is impenetrable. I suggest that Haymitch hack at it with his knife, but despite his protest that the blade does nothing to perforate the endless plant, I have to try it for myself. I pull out my own knife from the bottom of my pack and take a few swings at the hedge, but the thorns are seemingly metal and the miniature leaves burnished, the knife blade hitting them uselessly and creating a tinny, clinking sound. I'm at it for a few minutes until suddenly, a maroon tendril shoots out of the midst of the hedge and catches the knife's handle, dragging it from my grasp.

"It's alive!" I shriek, jumping back.

Haymitch snorts, looking cynically amused. "Controlled by the Gamemakers, you mean. The fucking assholes are willing to take anything from us. Our weapons, our food, our happiness, our sanity, our lives-"

I see the tendril before he does. "Haymitch-" I warn, but it's too late. The hedge's growth has reached enough length to wrap itself around his neck, squeezing tightly. My ally's eyes go wide with fear as he claws at the metallic vine, trying to breathe. For a moment, I stare in shock, and then I snap to action, whipping off my pack and digging though it. There must be something. There must be something. If blades don't work, then there must be- a blowtorch. A blowtorch!

I leap to my feet, blowtorch in hand, and fiddle with the buttons and valves until a large flame is shooting out the nozzle. Haymitch's face has begun to turn blue from strangulation, his fingernails leaving claw marks on his neck from futile attempts at loosening the tendril. Quickly, I position the blowtorch a few feet from Haymitch, the nozzle directed at the taut vine, and let the flames engulf the metal until part of the vine is melted, breaking the two sections in half. Instantly, the tendril around Haymitch's neck slackens and falls to the ground, and the remaining part of the "living" tendril delves back into the hedge. I turn off the blowtorch and automatically rush to my counterpart's side.

He's lying on the ground, taking large gulps of oxygen. Where the vine wrapped itself around his neck, there are now deep welts, and I'm sure in an hour's time his entire neck will be bruised impressively to match the bruising around his nose. There are scratches from where his fingernails ripped his skin, and they are bleeding somewhat, but not enough to require bandages. Despite all this, a small smirk adorns his lips. "Thank you, Maysilee Donner," he says, his voice raspy, "for finding the way through the impenetrable hedge."

"What?" I ask, my eyebrows knitting in confusion. I haven't found any way through the hedge- I just saved his life. And it's nothing, really... "Oh." I turn to the blowtorch, resting on the ground a few feet from us, and then look back at Haymitch. "I think you should thank the Gamemakers for that, instead. After all, they were the ones who instigated my surge of adrenaline, which in turn brought about the blowtorch scenario."

"And," Haymitch adds as I help him to his feet. "they also brought about the bruises on my neck and damaged my sense of pride."

I laugh humourlessly. "That too. Now come on," I tug him in no particular direction, "we're going to the Capitol. I have to get treatment for my sudden heart attack." I turn to face him, begging my expression to remain serious as I speak with emphasis, imitating the voice I'd use if talking to a baby. "Did you know that heart attacks can kill you, Mitchie?"

"Go to the Capitol yourself, Donner." he scowls, tugging his arm from my grip. "Or better yet- go screw yourself." And there's a hint of a smile on my lips because although his statements are malicious, Haymitch's eyes are laughing.

~~~

Even with the blowtorch, the hedge is slow going. The metallic leaves and thorns, when packed so tightly together, aren't easily burnt though. And when the metal pools underneath the imprint we've made at the base of the hedge, it cools and solidifies into purple blobs that will only complicate our safe passage. We eventually work out a system in which Haymitch controls the blowtorch (it doesn't require as much movement as my task- and I know without question his injuries must be painful), and I use a stick as some sort of squeegee (which is remarkably frustrating, seeing as the stick gets coated in the stuff and then (hallelujah!) the stick chars and falls apart).

My squeegeeing attempts set aside, Haymitch has a hard time of it too, seeing as the Gamemakers are intent on us not getting through the hedge. Their tactics are poorly carried out, however, so our fight will be won eventually. Simply put, their offense is sending vines through the hedge to rip the blowtorch out of Haymitch's hands, but he melts them before they make it far enough. It's like a video game (which is a form of entertainment system that younger Capitolites play with. Myra's mentioned them once, for no particular reason, while she and I were playing checkers. I asked what was wrong with checkers. She just shrugged).

In this game, the tendrils are our enemies, and Haymitch zaps them with the torch one by one. I take in the sight of him, brow furrowed in concentration and gray eyes glinting with triumph, and fight the urge to say, "Power-up to Abernathy!" It's not too hard to resist when I imagine the look he'd give me. Shrugging to myself, I return to my tasks, one of which is telling myself I didn't get the short stick out of this deal.

However, while the Gamemaker's futile attempts finally begin to wean, leaving Haymitch to melt away at the hedge, I've had to switch out my squeegees six times and the clearing around us is a battleground splattered with purple blood. "Alder," I mutter, "rethink your refusals and send me a diamond shovel already." Haymitch snorts and I whack him with my seventh, unused (and therefore intact) squeegee-stick. Soon enough it'll be too short to work with. Contrary to my wishes, I have gotten the short stick (how ironic), for my occupation is proving to be much more taxing than Haymitch's.

At midday, the six hours of work seem to be paying off. We've got a decently-sized cavity in the hedge, and when Haymitch holds the blowtorch up to the back of the depression, his forearm is obscured by the metal mass of vines, thorns, and leaves. He has to be careful, though, because one touch of his forearm to the thorns will draw blood, and there's barely enough bandages left to wrap twice around his wrist, let alone his entire arm. He also has to make sure none of the molten metal drips onto his skin, because we have no medicine that will help burns, and a tube full of Itch Cream isn't bound to do the trick.

I suggest we take a break when the sun is at its highest point, and it takes a few minutes of persuasion to deviate Haymitch from his consistent torching. Eventually, I coax him over to the few logs I've extracted from the woods, and we sit on them to eat. I chew on the last quarter of my beef strips, eating until there are only a few left. There are only six tributes remaining, and I have a feeling the Games shouldn't last much longer. Why not eat the contents of my pack while I still can? Haymitch, however, fixes the dwindling contents of my pack with a disapproving stare, indulging himself with a meager portion of his meat. I can tell he doesn't approve.

"Merchant flaw, I presume?" He comments offhandedly.

I frown and toss our remaining bandage (once it was a roll of bandages, now it's too short for a lengthy entitlement) at his face. "I'm quite capable of preserving food when I want to. I've preserved it long enough. How much longer do you think the Games will last?" He catches it easily and throws it back. I'm not as skilled; the bandage drops to the ground at my feet.

Haymitch's expression turns dark. "Plenty long. Haven't you seen Alba's Games?"

The conversation drops off suddenly, our thoughts plagued with an eighteen-year-old Alba Jennings from Six painting herself in flowers and hiding away for thirty-four days straight. Nobody expected those Games to last as long as they did. Needless to say, when her emaciated, colourful frame was hoisted up into a hovercraft, and the press went in to take pictures of her mentor, he looked a wreck. I'm sure the mentors all do after the Games. Even Alder- but Alder is a given, since he always looks a wreck.

"But considering who's left, and Sorphigan Pronx's desires to keep his occupation," (they all say the previous Head retired after the Forty-Sixth Games, but the majourity of Panem knows better), "our Games won't be a repeat of Alba's. Unless it somehow comes down to you and I, or possibly Tess and I. But, considering, Platina and Venom and Gracen aren't going down without a fight, so nobody's dropping their weapons and surrendering anytime soon. Confrontations will lead to death." I shrug, as does Haymitch. It's as if we're conversing of the weather over a cup of tea. It's as if we're not surrounded by death, and there haven't already been forty-two deaths and five more deaths to come… as if I haven't killed Willie and Devon and Quarren and Tyler...

No! No. I refuse to let myself delve back into insanity. I've crossed that bridge and set up a blockade at the end of it, so I can never cross over it again. I refuse to climb the wall and land in the midst of the bridge, refuse to let that bridge corrupt me until I'm standing on the railing and leaping off into nothingness. I refuse to be Smoke, who died and left Haymitch and I with four other contenders. Platina and Venom and Gracen and Tess. Four girls.

"… It's a guaranteed girl's win this year," I say suddenly, struck with the fact that Haymitch is, indeed, male. "I mean, what're the odds of you winning against five female tributes?"

I might as well have run into my mental blockade. He clobbers me.

~~~

Boom.

It's mid-afternoon when I just about smack my (seventeenth? eighteenth? fifty-first?) squeegee-stick against the side of Haymitch's head in surprise at the cannon. I am able to regain myself quickly, jerking the stick away from his dark locks of hair, but I'm a fraction of a second too late. There's a faint sizzling sound as the molten metal comes in contact with a few strands of hair, which burn instantaneously. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I apologise profusely, when the metal drips onto another strand. Haymitch doesn't answer, just picks up his (remarkably clean) knife from the purple-blooded battleground and cuts off the few locks of hair with the precision of a barber.

"Who do you think it was?" Haymitch asks stoically as he blasts away at the hedge. Sweat drips down his forehead from the heat of the blowtorch, but I don't think he minds. The hard labour will eventually be worth the effort when we make it through this hedge. If we make it through this hedge.

I consider his question, reminded of the game I used to play in the first few days, during which I guessed the identity of the tributes as their cannons boomed. "It damn well isn't Platina," I point out, "And somehow I don't think it's Venom or Gracen, either. Which leaves Tess." My voice is cold and dismissive, and somehow that's even worse than crying. Shouldn't these deaths have a drastic effect on my well-being? Why am I spending my days indifferent to the now forty-three passed, whom are soon to be lying in the ground with six feet of earth separating them from the rest of Panem?

I think of Tess, and her interview. I think of the boy she mentioned. Swathe. He won't be indifferent. He will care when her funeral arrives; he'll probably recite a eulogy describing a girl who could not be described in life, and cannot be described in death, either. Why can't I be more like Swathe? And sure, I could make the excuse to myself that Swathe conversed with her and knew her and understood her, but the argument is futile. She is fourteen. Was fourteen. I should care, and yet, I don't.

We work in silence. We've reached nearly halfway through, and it's a longer process when the indention stretches further into the metallic plant. Haymitch has to wait for the ground to cool enough so the molten metal won't stick to his clothes and burn through them entirely, so we wait about ten minutes between every effort. Then Haymitch has to crawl in on his stomach to hold the blowtorch close enough to the thorns and vines, which is an awkward position at best. Next, when the metal is hot enough to reach melting point, the stuff will pool towards him and if he doesn't back out fast enough, he will be burned dreadfully. If he backs out too fast, he'll get stuck on the thorns and they'll tear gashes in his skin. After this, I use a fresh squeegee-stick (my sixtieth? seventy-fifth?) to drag the molten metal out of the hole so it doesn't build up and leave us more work to do. Finally, the cooling process begins.

I doubt it's necessary to admit that I've told Haymitch to be careful at least a hundred times. On the contrary, if he complained about my repetitiveness, he'd be a hypocrite.

~~~

We keep up the routine until dusk, and then settle down to watch the anthem. It's one of the most constant things in our hectic lives. The faces are never the same- in fact, there haven't been faces in quite a while- but it's almost comforting to know that the Capitol's anthem will play every time it grows dark. Almost comforting. It's the Capitol's anthem, after all.

I lean my head against my pack, fiddling with the blowgun at my side and looking up at the stars projected in the sky. Back when we were younger, and Myra adored George Undersee (they've grown apart since, although I realise he's still enamored with her), we used to lay out on the Undersee's balcony and stare up at the stars. I knew most of the constellations then- Cassiopeia, Ursa Majour, Andromeda, Orion, Leo- and I pointed them out to Myra and George, whom listened intently. However, although the Gamemaker-controlled sky is covered in a blanket of stars, the constellations are different, forming swords and spears and mutts galore. I point this out to Haymitch. He doesn't reply, although I know he's silently laughing at the predictability of the Gamemakers.

The reason I can see the stars is because as you get closer to the hedge, the trees thin out, forming a strip of land that's clear of foliage. The ground is dirt, because had they grown grass here, the rest of my Itch Cream would have been put to good use. It's as great a spot as any to sleep. We couldn't very well find a good tree to climb that's in sight of the hedge, and Haymitch obsesses over sleeping as close as possible to the metallic plant, just in case the Gamemakers decide to move the thing while we slumber.

Eventually, the sky lights up and the anthem booms out of hidden speakers. The Capitol seal is displayed against the false stars, which fade into the background in the light of the colourful seal. I sit up in anticipation for the first face, the camouflage blanket pooling around my feet.

I expect to see Smoke, since Tess was District Eight, but the face in the sky isn't Smoke. Instead, it's Venom Flare- Venom Flare!- with her lips turned up in a smirk and her coal-black eyes glaring at the cameras. I'm not sure where the picture was taken, but what does it matter? It's Venom Flare, the eighteen-year-old volunteer from District Two, a skilled knife-thrower and a worthy opponent, if there ever was one. And do you know what this means? Do you know what this means? Tess is still alive.

A gasp of relief escapes from my lips. The boy she talked of- Swathe- won't be attending a funeral, won't be reciting a eulogy, won't be crying his eyes out. And I won't either. Yet.

"That was…" I say, my sentence trailing off as I think of my next words.

"Unexpected," Haymitch finishes for me as Venom's picture dissolves into a photograph of Smoke. Smoke, in turn, stares sombrely down at me. This is the mad boy from District Three whom was beyond saving. This is the mad boy from District Three who let my life slip through his fingers upon discovery of my equal insanity. Speaking of- where has my madness gone? It's as though he's taken my insanity with him to the grave. Or maybe that's Haymitch's doing. I can't be sure.

We turn in for the evening. I take first watch, and spend my lonely moments gazing up at the stars, naming the constellations that reside there. The sword belonged to Quarren, the spear belonged to Hestia. The butcher knives, crossed over each other in the shape of an X, represent Willie and Devon. The butterfly rendered Frond unconscious, the axe is Platina's, the grove of star-flowers granted Rosalina a quick death. And in the centre of it all is a gigantic eye; the eye of Sorphigan Pronx, reminding us all that the Gamemakers are always watching.

When it's finally time to tap Haymitch awake and delve under my own blanket, I dream of the stars exploding in the sky, raining down upon me. At the last moment, the star remnants morph into liquid metal, burning my skin on contact and forming violet puddles around my feet. However, the invisible arms that wrap around my waist, drawing me into the downpour, don't belong to an enemy but instead act as a means of comfort and support. Somehow, they remind me that dreams aren't nightmares so much as figments of my imagination.

They help me cope.

~~~

Morning dawns to the last of my beef strips and dried fruit. My pack is considerably light, with only a spare knife, Itch Cream, and my last full water bottle weighing it down. Once again, Haymitch looks on disapprovingly, but I don't give a damn what he thinks about my choices. We're nearly to the final four. It's already been twelve days, and if it reaches fourteen I'll be astonished, especially considering Platina and Gracen are included in the mix.

We get right back to burning the hedge. Haymitch thinks we'll have burned through the thing by lunchtime. I'm slightly more optimistic, but not by much. Maybe that's because I get hold of the blowtorch this time around. I figure he shouldn't play with fire anymore lest he injure himself further, and when I ask him about his broken nose and the cuts from the thorns yesterday, he says he feels as good as new. Which can be translated to a moderate pain level.

And so Operation Hole-in-the-Hedge begins once more. The process is, as usual, boring as hell. The seconds take an eternity to fly by. But we're driven on by curiosity. Whatever it is behind this hedge must be something marvelous. Why else would the Gamemakers have found it so important to protect? Maybe we'll find the edge of the arena. Nobody's ever discovered the edge of the arena before. Or maybe we'll make it out of the arena! Needless to say, Haymitch and I are going to make history.

Finally, after a lengthy morning, we manage to break through- and before lunchtime, nonetheless. From there on it's infinitely easier. We no longer have to squeegee out the melted metal with what Haymitch predicts to be our one hundred and twenty-fifth stick, because on the other side of the hedge, there is a short drop-off that channels the liquid in the other direction. All I have to do is simply kneel in the center of our little passageway, hunched over the blowtorch, sweat dripping from my forehead, while the vines and leaves and thorns all melt into oblivion. When I've widened the opening on the other side enough to crawl through safely, I chuck the blowtorch through and let out a triumphant laugh before worming my way out onto Haymitch's side.

When I've stood up fully, I push my sweaty hair to the side, tucking the shortened locks behind my ears. Haymitch looks at me expectantly, eyeing my empty hands. "Well," I say, my voice neutral as I pick up my blowgun from the battlefield of purple blood, "we've done it."

Something flickers in Haymitch's eyes, which intensify as they stare at me. If the Gamemaker's stars last night were the tributes and their weapons, then the Gamemaker's moon was Haymitch's eyes, gleaming bright against his olive skin and dark hair. Wordlessly, he shoves my backpack into my hands, swinging his own onto his back, and then all but pushes me into the small crawlspace.

The utterance of surprise and pain that emits from my mouth as my arms are pricked by thorns is swallowed up by a kiss. The world falls away. I feel as if my entire body is alive with electricity, because his lips are pressed to my lips and his hands are entangled in my hair and he is here because he is mine. Not the Gamemaker's tribute, not District Twelve's example of a poor Seam boy; mine.

"Haymitch," I whisper, trying my best to draw away in such a confined space.

"Maysilee," he replies.

"Can't they see us?" 'Kissing,' I don't say.

"If they could," he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, "they'd collapse the fucking hedge."

I can't bring myself to laugh. I can't bring myself to laugh when we have to resort to shielding the world from what I expect to be our final exchange of- whatever this is. Love, I suppose. If it isn't love, then what is it? Infatuation would be an understatement.

Whatever I expected the other side of the hedge to be, it isn't. I could lie and say this discovery isn't remotely as thrilling as burning through a hedge (for, as of five minutes, that was the least riveting experience of my life. Now, I'm plagued with disappointment). My first step into this new territory makes me wince as my foot lands on an expanse of dead shrubbery, the crunching of the sticks reminding me too much of the crunch of bones. After twelve days in the vibrant forests of our poisonous arena, I feel as if trapped in a sepia photograph, colourblind to the extent of seeing grayish-brown everywhere I look.

On this side of the hedge, the sky is brown. The dead shrubbery is brown. The rocky terrain is brown. A squirrel, seemingly of the normal variety and lonely in its expeditions, scurries up a remote, leafless tree (also brown). Haymitch emerges from the hedge behind me, and when I turn to gauge his expression, it's completely closed off. I'm not sure what he thinks of this place, but I'm pretty damn certain about what I think.

We form a silent agreement that dictates we walk until we find something interesting. To find it, we have to journey but a hundred and fifty metres. That's where we find the cliff, which is lined with rocks and boulders, ranging from the size of my thumb nail to nearly twice my height. When we're close enough to look over the side, it's confirmed that the landform is a canyon, as once explained in the geography textbooks that are currently hidden in the dark crevices of District Twelve's long-lost library. I liked to go there when I was younger, before they went out of business.

I still remember the sheer disappointment when I ventured there one day in search of a fascinating read, just to find a locked door and boarded-up windows. I'm just as disappointed to realise all our hard work on the hedge has gone to waste. The canyon won't be of any use to us, unless we want to commit suicide; for the bottom of the canyon, which I assume to be a dried riverbed, is covered in sharp rocks. I'm suddenly struck with the vision of Haymitch's body, lying broken amongst the boulders. I try to shake it off, but sometimes, my imagination can be emotionally scarring. Especially now that I realise my emotions will go haywire once more without him.

It's time. I can't pass up the opportunity any longer. "That's all there is, Haymitch," I hear myself say. "Let's go back."

I can still feel his lips on mine. "No, I'm staying here." Breathe in, breathe out. This purposely inflicted self-torture will be the death of my sanity.

"All right." Breathe in, breathe out. I clench my fist around my blowgun, gazing out into the hazel-coloured skies. For a moment, the only sound I can hear is the lonely squirrel scampering across a tree branch, far away. "There's only five of us left. May as well say good-bye now, anyway." My voice cracks. I can't look at him, and I know for a fact that he can't, either. "I don't want it to come down to you and me."

That's it. That's the extent of my little speech. I choke back a hysterical laugh as I imagine my return to the woods. The sepia sky is despicable, now that I've grown used to the arena; my poisonous little world, one hundred and fifty metres away. If I manage to return to District Twelve, I won't know what home is anymore. My home is now golden squirrels and acid waters and dropkicked fruits. My home is now seclusion. My home is now misery.

"Okay," Haymitch says stonily, drawing me out of my thoughts. My gaze drifts to him of its own accord, but his eyes are only for the stones at his feet. The kiss is far away now, shoved under false memories of cold hatred. It's as if he's creating pictures in my mind to distract me from the truth. But he can't be doing this. Maybe they're figments of my own imagination as I try to cope with the notion of leaving. The action of leaving.

I attempt to memorise his face before I turn, but it's no use. When I finally do turn, spinning on my heel, the picture is instantly erased from my thoughts. Maybe, I wonder, that's why people tend to look back- because they fool themselves into believing that if they stare for one more second, the face will be burned into their memories. I don't look back. I refuse to look back, because my detachment is finality, and if I look back, it won't be a clean break.

"Okay."

The word rings in my ears as I walk away. Okay, I'm leaving. Okay, we're done. Okay, good-bye. I know very well that he said his good-byes in former actions, not words. I know very well that if we had conversed a second longer, I might've never found the courage to leave. I completely understand Haymitch's reply to my curt farewell; understand that this single word was necessary to confirm our separation, and what's done is done.

Maybe okay would be okay if he didn't matter so much to me. And despite my knowledge and understanding, it doesn't hurt any less. It's not okay.

~~~

Walk, Maysilee. It's not that hard.

But telling myself to walk is easy. Functioning well enough to continue at a steady pace seems so impossible. Every step away from Haymitch delivers a blow to my heart. Yet I proceed to distance myself from him. Across the short expanse of rocky terrain, full of sparse, dead bushes. Through the hole we torched in the prickly, purple-metaled hedge that is so small I have to crawl on my hands and knees. Into the mouth of the vibrant, poisonous forest that I dislike with such ardor, but have grown to love, despite my reluctance. Passing underneath the brightly-coloured canopy, dangerous fruits dangling over my head, dangerous bushes scattered at ground level, dangerous animals lurking in the trees. Danger, danger, everywhere.

I am sick of it all. The poison, the treachery, the danger, and the melancholy blanket that surrounds me wherever I look. With Haymitch, I was distracted from how terrible it all is; but now that I am all alone in my sanity (insanity, perhaps?), I notice.

"With Haymitch," I mutter to myself. "I sound like a dependent, misled school girl. One minute without his presence and I'm already a lost cause."

I can't help but think that that single sentence will be cut from the cameras. No one in Panem wants to know about the doomed relationship between the two formerly allied tributes from District Twelve. Therefore, no one in Panem will know of our doomed relationship, with an exception of the Gamemakers, the editing crews, and a handful of other officials. They'll think it pointless to show to the rest of Panem, as we didn't announce it early on into the Game, and Capitolites don't like when secrets are kept from them. Why spur their anger by refraining from cutting out every remotely friendly scene between the two of us? And so they will. They will cut out the meaningful scenes, without a thought otherwise.

But Alder Blind, our surly mentor, has watched it all. He has not sent us gifts. He has not formed any contact with us tributes whilst we have spent our devastating days in the arena. He has not provided comfort in the least. However, I'm positive he felt he owed it to us by at least watching our struggle to survive. I'm positive he's distinguished some aspect of our relationship, and I'm positive it has affected him somehow.

I take another step forward. It seems like the seconds are hours, ticking away slower and slower. Maybe soon, the seconds that seem like hours will stop, completely and utterly.

Haymitch courses through my mind at least once per every couple seconds passed. His face- foggy, because I couldn't memorise it- flashes before my very eyes, begging my connotational side for a few moments' time to reside there, just to be shoved away again by my merciless common sense. Despite this, I get plenty of glimpses of hazy eyebrows and out-of-focus raven hair and silvery eyes that my imagination failed to memorise the exact shade of. It is frustrating. I want to see him again. I want to see Haymitch Abernathy.

Why are you doing this to yourself, Maysilee? Wishing away your life when you might have just seconds left to live? I haven't the slightest idea. But if I have seconds left to live, I can only hope that they are quick and painless.

~~~

Boom. A cannon fires. For a second, my mind flies to the assumption that it is Haymitch, lying pallid and bloody on the rocky terrain of the cliffside- or maybe at the bottom of the cliff itself. But that can't be correct. My instinct says otherwise. It is not Haymitch, it is not Platina. Is it insane Gracen Blaze, the girl from Seven? I don't think so. There leaves only one: Tess, the quiet girl from Nine that everyone assumed would die painfully in the bloodbath. She hid, and hid well. But I'm sure she is gone now, leaving Swathe to recite a tearful eulogy, leaving me a twenty-five percent chance to win these Games.

Yes. Maysilee Donner has reached the final four. I am guaranteed an ultimate win or an ultimate death. Events to be enjoyed or despised, depending solely on the viewer of this atrocious occurrence they call the "Games." And whoever the viewer is, whether it is my sister, my best friend, my father, Haymitch's girl, my mentor, my escort, my stylist, an overenthusiastic reporter from the Capitol, a lonely Avox, the Head Gamemaker, or even the President himself… they better brace themselves. Whether for my life, or for my death.

~~~

It's a bird. It's nothing but a bird. And yet it is so much more than that.

It stares at me with its beady black eyes, cocking its head to the side as if contemplating who it has just landed in front of. The bird is about the height of my waist, with bright orange talons attached to thin, wobbly legs. Its wingspan is large, and the wings themselves are coated in an abundance of bubblegum-pink feathers that I expect to be extremely soft to the touch. Its neck is lengthy and curving somewhat, like a flamingo's. Its beak is long and the colour of sunset orange, the tip formed into a deadly sharp point that makes me think it is meant to skewer fruits, or berries… or humans.

But the beak is not the worst part. The most daunting feature of this animal is its eyes. Coal-black, tiny, and gleaming with a malice that seems to bore into my soul. It is as if this creature can extract the secrets of Panem from within the depths of my being. The eyes, I conclude, are what I despise most about this muttation, and it is the eyes that inform me of what the audience of this Game needs to brace themselves for.

It's a bird. It's nothing but a bird. And yet it is so much more than that. Because this bird, this simple bird, is the death of me.

~~~

"Birds, birds, birds. Stay away from the birds, Maysilee Donner."

"The birds talk to me sometimes."

"The birds tell me secrets. They tell me that you love him."

"The birds don't believe in love, or friendship. They're just a figment of imagination come to life, come to destroy us."

"I think you're an idiot. I know you understand. But, if you insist... they're the birds that kill you, Maysilee Donner."

Rosalina was right, all along. She knew my future from the start. If she was born able to predict what lies ahead, I shall never know, because the Rosalina I came to be friends with never knew of her waking condition herself, and she is now dead by her brother's hand and the result of poisonous flowers. She's dead, having predicted the fate that would befall her, having predicted my fate but only receiving confusion and dismissal when she shared this information with me.

Was it the real Rosalina sharing fate with me, or did she simply have another malevolent personality with a certain, special gift? I won't ever know that either. I have always hated unanswered questions, and to my complete disappointment there are still so many questions that will be left unasked and unanswered. Why do the Hunger Games continue, when the Districts have been punished enough? When will the Hunger Games end? When will peace be restored? What is death like? Why does life have to be so short? Why do I love Haymitch Abernathy? Why does Haymitch Abernathy love me?

The only answered question today would be why the Gamemakers chose me to unleash their mutts upon today. And the answer to that is simple. I am considered the only weak tribute left. They want to get rid of me. Maybe they are even punishing me for finding love and hope and a home in a place that was only meant to unleash horrifying emotions. Anyhow, I am the girl whom is chosen to die.

And if I am going to die, I will die with dignity.

~~~

It has been a few moments since the bird blocked my path, but it seems to have been an eternity, and I am impatient. So I step back in attempt to see if it moves.

The bird imitates me, but in the opposite direction; its feathers ruffling in a nonexistent breeze, its beady eyes still trained disturbingly on mine. Something tells me not to break the gaze, so I step back again instead. It steps forward once more.

What is the bird's purpose? Is it to kill me, or to represent what is to come? Why is it not advancing? Is it simply waiting for its prey to make the first move? If I kill it, will the Gamemakers leave me alone? The final question is worth a try. So, not breaking eye contact, I slowly lift my blowgun and touch the weapon to my lips, staring down the long wooden pole at the bird that stands there, calmly, without motion.

I am on my last dart. This is the last kill I can make with this blowgun, which has become my friend these past few weeks. I have a knife in my pack- one the hedge didn't take from me- and I will have to use it from now on, despite my nonexistent skills with the weapon. So the killing of this bird had better be worth it.

I take a deep breath in through my nose. The bird lets loose a long, loud wail as I blow out forcefully, but does not make any move to avoid the poisoned dart that flies through its open beak, into the back of its throat. The candy-pink bird collapses to the ground, its last noise being the eerie note that seems to echo throughout the arena. There is no cannon sounding for the creature, but I know its death is as significant as any tributes'.

I do not feel pride in my kill, although I am set to think that the death of the bird is necessary for my survival.

I am set to think wrong. Because as I turn around, hysterical laughter threatens to burst from my throat as I am met with a sight I knew I'd be met with all along. In front of me was one bird. And behind me is ten.

~~~

They advance on me. The birds are all of identical size, as if the Gamemakers created thousands of clones of a single muttation, and have sent only a fraction of those numbers to end me. Slowly, more of the birds add to the flock, creating fifteen, twenty, thirty members, all the same, all seeking to stab me with those unusually large beaks of theirs.

I back away, but soon enough my back slams into a tree. They have me cornered. I close my eyes, bracing myself. Die with dignity. Die with dignity. It's not long before I feel searing pain, looking down to see a bill pulling out of the back of my hand, slick with shiny red blood. There is a hole in my hand, and I can see through it. I can see through the bloody, bloody hole, and through it are dead pine needles and the corner of a rotting fruit. The sight makes me dizzy, as does the pain.

Why am I looking through the hole in my hand? I don't know. I can't think much now, because there's searing pain everywhere, clouding my vision. I'm biting into my tongue so hard that blood coats the inside of my mouth, like the blood coats wherever the birds stab me. I shut my eyes. Die with dignity.

Pain. Pain in my other hand. My arms, my legs, my stomach. Pain, pain, everywhere. It is no use to struggle back against these monstrous mutts that are looming down upon me. It is no use to open my eyes and see their beady black eyes and gleaming, sharpened beaks covered in blood. My blood. Pouring from the holes they have punctured in my poor, poor body. It doesn't feel like it's mine. It's screaming, but I'm not the one who's screaming. My body is.

The screaming is working. The screaming is scaring them off, but the pain is all consuming, and my body can't scream forever. Are they leaving me to bleed out all alone? I'd rather not die alone.

My body screams its last. A long, drawn-out note, just like the first bird's; the bird I killed. It's a desperate scream. And it almost accomplishes its purpose, because the birds with their shining, bloody beaks scatter everywhere and take flight into the distance, leaving me with my back pressed against the bark of a tree and small holes splayed across my body, bleeding constantly. I try to cover them with my hands, but it's no use. Eventually, I resort to pressing them against the stomach wounds.

I sink to a sitting position on the ground, staring at the figure in front of me. One bird remains. One bird that was not scared off by my final scream, that did not choose to flee. This is the bird that will finish me off. And I laugh at it. I laugh at those excessively pink feathers and those coal black eyes that examine me as if I am nothing. I laugh at the face of death. Death doesn't like laughter- he's never liked laughter- so the bird approaches; fearless, merciless. It approaches one step at a time, until it is towering over my pallid figure, staring at me spitefully.

I am still laughing as it skewers me through the neck.

~~~

Back then, I was just one girl, in one world, with one point of view, living one life. Back then I thought I had a purpose in life. Back then I believed I could make a difference.

But now I realise that the purpose I have in life is to die. To die so others can live.

I see it now; my Haymitch, who sits beside me, holding my hand, is going to win these Games. His life is so much more important than mine has been. He is going to spark the rebellion; he is going to find the person who will create an inferno; he is going to assist the fire-bringer in every way possible; and he is going to die knowing he has made a difference. He isn't going to die wishing he could have done more, so much more.

That's all I ever was. A little girl who wished she could do more. A girl with tedious blue eyes and dull blonde hair, with a twin sister and a best friend that she envied every so often, with a canary that she took care of just to have to give it away, with a mother who died when she was young, with a father who owned a sweet shop and went through life in a wearisome manner. A girl who studied to get flawless grades, a girl who never had a boyfriend, a girl who snuck off to the meadow to have peace and quiet, a girl who was thought to marry a merchant boy one day and have children and live happily ever after. A girl who was, in reality, destined to die. A girl who was reaped for the games, a girl who loved Haymitch Abernathy, a girl who killed a thirteen-year-old boy and three others. A girl who lies on the ground now in punishment for those deaths, slowly bleeding out through a hole in her neck.

A girl who is not able to speak as she slips away, remembering her life. A girl whose lover is the last thing she sees. A girl whose last thoughts are the ones uttered softly from his lips. I love you.

I am that girl. I am Maysilee Donner.

~~~

*finis de capitulum decim*


	12. Epilogue: Haymitch Abernathy

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games.

Warnings: Majour character death, minor character death, suicide, homosexuality referencing

~~~

Epilogue: Haymitch Abernathy

For you, for you

Baby, I'm not moving on

I'll love you long after you're gone

For you, for you

You will never sleep alone

I'll love you long after you're gone

And long after you're gone, gone, gone

-Gone, Phillip Phillips

~~~

"Why are you interested in obtaining this axe?" Paylor asks curiously, her dark eyebrows knitting in confusion.

Haymitch rolls his eyes, gesturing wildly with the flask in his hand. "Don't know, Paylor. It's obviously my fascination with lethality." When she raises an eyebrow at his sarcasm, he slams the flask down onto the desk, scowling. "I dunno! Damn thing almost killed me forty-odd years ago. Forty-four, if you want to be precise. Does it matter? Maybe I don't have a reason. You tell me why I'm interested in obtaining the axe."

"I'm not going to concern myself with answering your mockery, Mr. Abernathy." The president clasps her hands on the desk in front of her, her fingernails noticeably bitten raw. "I want a straight answer. The FCA is holding another meeting tomorrow and they require me to fill out a stack of paperwork prior to that, so I'm not going to listen to an old man rave about the axe he took to the stomach decades ago when there's work to be done. In addition, according to article thirty-seven of law no. eight, one must have a legitimate reason to come in possession of dangerous paraphernalia (e.g. this axe), all of which will be permanently stored in the GA locker."

"GA?"

"Games Apparatus," Paylor clarifies. "I assume you remember the retrieval squad we sent out to collect GA from the Capitol's congregation of museums and galleries? No? Well, I didn't expect you to- it's been fifteen years or so. I'd rather not reminisce the daunting days of earning a warrant to search Sopaipilla Merrythought's mansion for Finnick Odair's trident… anyway, we managed, and the security measures are nearly impossible to breach. To obtain access to the locker, Mr. Abernathy, I must grant you my permission, and I will not grant you my permission to acquire the axe without a genuine reason."

Haymitch leans back in his chair, smirking before he takes a long drink from his flask. "Miss Selvage," he slurs nonchalantly, "What do you know about love?"

"What?" Paylor recoils, taken aback. Her gaze suddenly turns stony as she processes his words. "I don't see how that pertains to this situation, Mr. Abernathy, nor do I see how the situation pertains to me."

"'Course it does, sweetheart. Why would I mention it otherwise?"

"Because you are a drunk old man who couldn't form a coherent thought to save his life?"

"Now that's just rude," Haymitch says, eyebrows raised as he screws on the cap of his flask. "My drinking may affect my coherency, but I'd like to think my coherency is immaculate when speaking with anyone of presidential status. …Anyway, if you don't know anything about love, Selvage, I don't know why I bother."

Paylor rolls her eyes impatiently. "The paperwork is waiting, Abernathy. If you really are capable of forming a coherent thought, explain why love pertains to obtaining an axe."

Haymitch uncaps his flask once more and overturns it, pouring the rest of the contents in his mouth. "Don't know if you watched my Games live, Paylor," he begins, "but if you did, you wouldn't remember the half of it. What seven-year-old watches the Games? And besides, Eight didn't last long. They wiped out Calico and Bolt during the eruption. 'Course, if you watch reruns, they weren't exactly the 'stars of the show.'" He grunts. "She wasn't either. Why would she be? We never announced having anything special, so when the editors discovered our subtleties, they deleted the scenes entirely. …Allies. We were allies. Allies until she broke it off and I let her, knowing it meant more than separation."

"You're speaking of… Maysilee Donner?" Paylor questions.

He nods grimly before staring mournfully at his empty flask. "I told her to stay alive… but how the hell was she supposed to do that? She'd be broken if she went up and won it all. So call me cruel, but that's why I let her go on alone. And now I'm the mad one. Madder than a post-arena Annie Cresta." He looks up, and Paylor's eyes are barely comprehending. "I see her in my sleep, Selvage, every fucking night. So why can't I sleep forever? If you give me the axe, I'll see her for eternity."

Paylor Selvage, president of Panem, closes her eyes in alarm. "Just give me a moment," she says, inhaling deeply for a few moments. When her eyes open once more, they are focussed and unyielding. "I have one last question. Why the axe? Why the irony?"

Haymitch Abernathy, alcoholic Victor extraordinaire, smirks. "Certainly you have gathered that I have quite the ironic persona, Paylor?"

~~~

10:00:47 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy entered President Paylor Selvage's office

10:01:21 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy introduced Topic of Conversation to President Paylor Selvage

10:04:52 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy had the audacity to mention "Love" to a surprised President Paylor Selvage

10:06:02 - President Paylor Selvage asked Victor Haymitch Abernathy if he was referring to Tribute Maysilee Donner

10:08:38 - President Paylor agreed to grant Victor Haymitch Abernathy permission to obtain an Axe originally used by Tribute Platina Cleve

10:17:16 - GA locker was opened and Axe retrieved

10:20:59 - Axe was presented to Victor Haymitch Abernathy by President Paylor Selvage

10:23:24 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy successfully sneaked Axe from Presidential Building of D13 to Train Interior

12:39:15 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy ate lunch in Train Interior

13:42:44 - Train arrived in D12. Victor Haymitch Abernathy dismounted

13:48:07 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy entered Home and casually chucked Axe, contained in Duffle Bag, onto couch

13:49:31 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy successfully poured himself a drink

13:49:49 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy successfully finished off said drink

15:18:11 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy showed Pet Shop Owner Billy Olsen cage containing Geese

15:19:23 - Pet Shop Owner Billy Olsen shoved Wad of Money into Victor Haymitch Abernathy's hand in payment for Geese

15:20:01 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy took Wad of Money and covertly stuffed it into cage containing Geese for Pet Shop Owner Billy Olsen to find later

15:35:55 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy went to visit Victors Katniss and Peeta Mellark, and Daughter Pearl Mellark

15:56:29 - Pregnant Victor Katniss Mellark gave Victor Haymitch Abernathy a certain Mockingjay Pin

16:02:18 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy left Mellark Residence without saying good-bye

16:47:32 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy successfully poured himself another drink

16:47:44 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy successfully finished off said drink

16:50:06 - Axe was removed from Duffle Bag

16:50:09 - Axe was admired by Victor Haymitch Abernathy

16:50:51 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy lay on couch with Axe in one hand and Mockingjay Pin in the other

16:51:00 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy drove said Axe into Stomach, committing suicide

16:52:35 - Victor Haymitch Abernathy died.

~~~

18:28:27 - Victor Peeta Mellark walks into Victor Haymitch Abernathy's Home, box of Cheese Buns in hand. Upon finding Person of Interest, box of Cheese Buns is dropped.

~~~

"Did you know about his intentions?" Katniss Mellark née Everdeen exclaims heatedly, upon walking into President Paylor Selvage's office. Somehow, even six months pregnant, she can still pull off an intimidating stance- accompanied with a glare. Her husband, Peeta Mellark, enters silently; his head bowed and his eyes haunted. Their daughter is in District Twelve, being looked after by a local sitter.

Paylor looks up from her digital comms device, which she stows away when realising the time has run away from her. It's two o'clock, and their previously scheduled meeting is due to run its course. "Whose intentions?" She asks calmly, tucking a strand of gray-streaked black hair behind one ear.

"You very well know whose intentions I'm speaking of and what happened in consequence," Katniss hisses, slamming her hands down on Paylor's desk. "And I know plenty about the matter. The day of Haymitch Abernathy's death, he visited District Thirteen to speak with you about some affair or another. I dismissed it as politics, but clearly, it was a different topic entirely." She pauses dramatically. "…Peeta found Haymitch in his house with an axe buried in his stomach. The only way to obtain an axe these days is to gain access to the GA locker, or break into it, which I'm sure he was physically incapable of doing. So, tell me, Paylor… did you grant Haymitch permission to remove that axe from the GA locker?"

"I did," Paylor Selvage says. "And if it counts for anything, I was the one who retrieved it myself."

"How could you?" Katniss shouts suddenly, slamming her hands on the desk once more. "How could you give Haymitch a reason to commit such an act? He was doing just fine. He had geese to look after! We stopped by every day so he wouldn't be lonely, and Pearl called him 'Uncle,' and Effie would visit once a month to give him company and clean his house up a bit! Haymitch was drunk, yes, but he's been an alcoholic since his Games, and old habits die hard. He had plenty of people to make him happy! Why would he... why would he do that?"

She bursts into sobs and Peeta wraps and arm around her shoulders, comforting her. Paylor looks on stonily. When the news of Haymitch Abernathy's death reached her, she wasn't the least bit surprised, but the tears wet her pillow, anyhow. However, she's a strong woman, and the river she'd cried won't turn into an ocean anytime soon. "Mrs. Mellark, are you accusing me of being responsible for Mr. Abernathy's death? By giving him the axe, I wasn't giving him incentive to commit suicide. He had the incentive already. Surely you realise that Mr. Abernathy wasn't altogether happy, despite your efforts?"

"He wasn't?" Katniss chokes out. "But- but we tried so hard to make him happy-"

"The only way Haymitch Abernathy was going to be happy was if he actually tried to pave a new path for himself. However, despite his many opportunities, Mr. Abernathy was past the point of no return. I am led to believe he was miserable enough to think he didn't deserve the happiness," President Selvage sighs. "Life was intent upon wrecking that man since his early childhood, and didn't provide him opportunities to live happily until he was thoroughly broken. Had opportunities arisen early on, he'd probably still be alive today."

Katniss wilts into a chair, while Peeta takes the one adjacent to hers. The sobs are now gone, replaced with a heavy aura and the occasional hiccup. "Did he give you a good reason for it?" She asks meekly.

"Of course he did. I wasn't about to up and give him the axe upon request," Paylor lets out a melancholy chuckle. "'What do you know about love?' he asked me… and it just so happens that I have experienced the death of a loved one, and could understand the feeling of loss precisely. He lost many more than I, nevertheless. According to his file, Mr. Abernathy's father drowned face-first in a bowl of alcohol when he was six. His mother, brother, and girlfriend burned in a fire two weeks after he refused prostitution. Not to mention he survived his Games when forty-seven others did not, one of them being Maysilee Donner, who was… special to him."

"Maysilee Donner? Special?" Peeta speaks for the first time. "But weren't they just allies? And he had a girlfriend, didn't he?"

Paylor nods knowingly. "I might have been young during the Fiftieth Games- seven years old, in fact- but I remember quite a lot about them, and the editors cut out many scenes." She stares into Katniss' eyes, which look broken, despite the small spark of curiosity. "I distinctly remember his interview. He mentioned having two girlfriends. It was a joke, of course, but there was more truth to that than met the ear. There were scenes between Mr. Abernathy and Miss Donner that were quite friendly- for example, the evening they split a package of candy found in the pack of the tribute Haymitch killed. After that, I hoped for one of them to win, because they seemed much more humane than the rest of the surviving tributes. Needless to say, I never saw that scene again."

"But… how does this pertain to Haymitch's death?"

"Imagine, Mrs. Mellark, if you experienced Peeta getting stabbed through the neck by a Gamemaker-controlled bird-mutt. Imagine living forty-four more years afterwards, only getting the chance to see him in your dreams. Imagine that you still aren't happy forty-four years later, and there's nothing for you to live for anymore. Would you kill yourself?"

"But I love Peeta, and he certainly didn't-"

"Stop with your 'buts,' Mrs. Mellark. Of course he loved Maysilee Donner. You're a fool to think otherwise." Her tone is piercing, but not unkind.

Peeta clasps Katniss' hand, while cocking his head to the side. "And how do you know this? How do we know that you're not just putting words in Haymitch's mouth?"

Paylor turns away, fishing for her digital comms device in her desk drawer, where it was previously discarded. "How did you know you loved Katniss? How did Katniss know she loved you? Some things, my friends, require intuition and background knowledge to know the real story. And why would I put words in Haymitch's mouth? There's no reason for me to. He might not have told me everything directly, so I am using my history and a few aspects of his as reference, as well as an open mind." She smiles. "Excuse me for spouting nonsense. The answer is that you don't know. You don't know if I'm putting words in his mouth, so use intuition and historical reference to distinguish whether or not I'm right."

Husband and wife ponder this, and then get up to leave. "Thank you for your time," Katniss says boldly. "And thank you for sharing your knowledge, Paylor. I'm sorry for accusing you of Haymitch's death- you didn't deserve it." She turns to leave, grabbing Peeta by the wrist, but Peeta restrains.

"One last question," he says. Paylor raises a sculpted eyebrow in his direction, only briefly looking up from her comms device. "What is your history? What do you have in common with Haymitch?"

The comms device clatters to the floor. Paylor Selvage squeezes her eyes shut. There is a distinct pause as she gathers her words, and the two Mellarks wait in silence.

"She never loved me like I loved her," she begins. "Straight as a needle, she was, with a husband and three children to prove it. Now, she's gone. Dead. Died nineteen years ago. That's when I began to fight for my freedom. Her death was my incentive, and now she'll always provide the fuel behind it, even buried six feet under the ground. Who knows? Maybe one day the fuel will burn off and I'll be left to suffer the suicidal thoughts." Her eyes open, and they reflect sorrow. Katniss and Peeta lean forward, hanging on to the president's every word, unsure whether or not to brace themselves for the name of the person. "She was a great woman. Gifted with intellect and an admirable beauty. Adaptable… like all Victors are. Were.

"Her name was Cecelia Reyes, and she died in the Seventy-Fifth Annual Hunger Games."

They probably should have. Braced themselves, that is.

~~~

There's nothing left to love

No one left to give

There's a below but no above

There's no point trying to live.

Wipe the coal dust from my eyes

Write a note with my good byes

Bet there's nobody who cries

When they tell them that I'm gone.

Brace yourself

And care no more

Don your jacket, walk out the door

In the fields of strife

You'll take a life

And that life you'll take is yours.

~~~

*finem*


	13. End Notes/FAQ

I'm pretty unused to AO3, but recently I decided to update more. "Brace Yourself" has been complete for more than a year now.

I am aware that there are a few typos and clichés intermixed in this fic, and will be going back and editing. My attention has also been brought to how out-of-character I depict Haymitch, and I hope to revise some of the dialogue in my final edits. (I originally created this thinking his drunkenness in his Victor years were the cause of his bitterness and sarcasm, but have changed my mind since.)

I also need to go back and work on italicizing and bolding which I didn't have time for previously. 

FAQ(which have, ironically, only been asked by yours truly):

1\. How did Tyler get a training score of ten when Rosalina got a two?  
Answer: I never properly explained this, and I'm sure a few of you were curious. Tyler, to put it simply, stole Rosalina's idea. He knew that Rosalina was going to hang a dummy over a burning fire, and since his private session was right before hers, that meant the novelty of her session was decreased drastically. However, the action that sealed the deal was when Tyler pulled a Katniss. He used paints from the camouflage station to decorate the dummy to look like Rosalina, and then wrote her name over the dummy's chest. When Rosalina failed to do anything as shocking, she earned a two, and Tyler, a ten.

2\. What went on with the Careers on the mountain? How did Platina and Venom survive the volcanic eruption?  
Answer: The information Suzanne Collins gave me was that a pack of ten Careers scoured the mountain, and most of them succumbed to the eruption. The pack consisted of the tributes from One, Two, and Four, with an exception of Siren (who was dead) and Frond (who they left behind at the Cornucopia to guard the items). The Careers then split up into two packs to search the mountain. One, consisting of Platina, Venom, Intron, Exon, and Quarren, handled the base, while the others, Naiada, Cleat, Miracle, Lex, and Lethae, took over the top region. Therefore, when the volcano erupted, all five in the top region were wiped out while the rest survived and split up into two more alliances. The Intron/Exon/Quarren alliance was eventually slaughtered. However, Platina and Venom were able to live a few days longer.

3\. There were quite a few unexplained deaths. What were the causes?  
Answer: I'll go ahead and list off all the meaningful deaths that weren't explained.  
Platina Cleve from D1- If your memory is as bad as mine and you don't have "Catching Fire" close at hand, you probably don't remember that Haymitch's victory kill was the "girl from District One." He gouges out her eye in combat and when she throws her axe over his head, it rebounds back from the force field over the canyon and kills Platina.  
Miracle Hunter from D1- Was first to die during the volcanic eruption. She was nearly at the peak when the "mountain" exploded right out from under her feet.  
Venom Flare from D2- Was stabbed in the back by Platina when it came clear that they'd reached the final six.  
Intella (Tellie) Gently and Luther Ferrum from D3- Intella took a bite of poisonous fruit and promptly died. Luther, hysterical, took a bite of the exact same fruit once he'd realised what killed her.  
Siren Faith from D4- Ever wonder how a Career dies in the bloodbath? She killed herself with her own double-bladed sword. It was a mistake.  
Frond Fischer from D4- Was left to guard the Cornucopia while the rest of the Careers took a trip towards the Cornucopia. Unfortunately, Frond was rampaged by butterflies, which left him unconscious for nearly three days. Had he woken up, he might have escaped the volcanic eruption, but he was still unconscious when the lava finally reached him.  
Grant Gratestone from D7- Could have posed a threat in the arena later on, but he was killed during the bloodbath by Gracen.  
Gracen Blaze from D7- Was killed during combat with Platina during the afternoon of the twelfth day.  
Calico Jute and Bolt Hughes from D8- They were two of my favourites, but unfortunately, didn't get much place in the story. They died running from the volcanic eruption.

If anyone has a question about another death that isn't mentioned here, go ahead and drop a review. I've got an entire list of the tributes' ages, weapons of choice, deaths, and places, so ask away.

4\. What happened to Augusta? Alder?  
Answer: Let's just say, Augusta finally "got the girl" (the girl in question was Rosea), and Alder committed suicide the day after Haymitch's Victory Tour. He considered his job done, and left mentoring up to Haymitch for the next twenty-five years. Unfair, but no one ever said Alder was unselfish.

The FAQ will be continued if anybody asks a reasonable question that I feel needs to be answered.

Thank you for reading. :)


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